FIC: Hijink (DWP, Miranda/Andy, Get Smart 99/Max) 12/14
Title: Hijink 12/14
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Archiving: Eventually it'll show up at my own woefully outdated archive
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.
--
CHAPTERS
One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten | Eleven | Twelve | Thirteen
--
PART TWELVE: Into the Rabbit Hole
As much as Andy liked to think she didn't have any regrets, the truth was that her spontaneity got her into enough trouble that hindsight seemed to perpetually haunt her, particularly at this stage in her life.
As to what stage that was, there was no real answer, because it was just getting really really confusing.
To be Miranda's lover was one thing. She could handle that. She could definitely handle that. She loved handling that. Even if at times her secret affair was incredibly inconvenient, particularly with a well-meaning Lily and Doug throwing every Tom, Dick and Harry in her direction at every opportunity, it was worth it.
For every fight with Miranda, there also was a quiet memory. The glide of soft lips pushing against hers, the low growl of a woman with sinfully smooth skin and the heavenly smell of expensive body wash and perfume that wafted over her as she deepened her kiss with a possessive sweep of her tongue licking against perfect teeth. The tell-tale thump of a heart beating mutely as sweat-soaked bodies tangled together in that timeless second when they had both just come and were blissed out of their minds.
That was heaven. And even if the relationship… affair… whatever it was, was filled with doubts and fights and secrets and furtive passionate couplings, at the very least Andy could understand it. She understood an affair.
It was Miranda's children that muddled it all up for her.
Her children and their dog, who in the past few months, had deemed Andy 'theirs'. Who called Andy on her cellphone daily, who demanded visits and walks and never expected to be told no.
Who cc'ed her on their Christmas wish emails to their mother.
"You do realize that you aren't their older sister or actually related to them," Lily told her once, when she caught Andy outside of Doug's birthday dinner at Spago's trying to calm a hysterical Caroline. "You can say no."
"I can't," she told Lily, shrugging helplessly, and went back to trying to explain to Caroline that her life was not over simply because Tiffany from school had managed to get a hold of the new Louis Vuiton shoulder bag before she did.
Lily crossed her arms, regarded her strangely, and shrugged in resignation. "Just remember," she said, in a tone that made Andy falter, "You put yourself in that situation. You don't fall in love with the kids if you're not sure where you stand with the Mom."
Her friend was an artist; she had a keen eye for the subtle. She saw things coming before Andy ever really did, and while she and Lily never discussed what she meant by her statement, Andy had been flabbergasted to realize that night that Lily knew.
Lily knew more than she did.
"The girls have asked if you'll join us for Christmas," Miranda told her later that week, breaking Andy out of her thoughts. Seated across from her, Miranda's eyes were on her food, elegant as always, even when seated at Andrea's IKEA dining room table. "We're going to the Hamptons for the holidays."
Lifting her chin off her fisted palm, Andy realized she had been off in such a daze that she inadvertently let her foot fall asleep. With a grimace, she tried to stomp out the tingle.
She hissed when the pain shot up her foot, nearly dropping her fork.
"Andrea."
Miranda was regarding her with the same closed expression she normally employed when broaching a subject that was deemed controversial between them over their pre-sex dinner. The last time she had used that blank frown, they had nearly thrown knives at each other over Clinton versus Obama.
Exhaling, Andrea's shoulders straightened, and she deliberately placed the fork beside the table. "Are the girls asking or are you asking?"
Miranda's mouth tugged in a barely discernable frown, as she too, placed the fork beside her plate and pressed a napkin delicately to her mouth.
"I wouldn't be opposed to the idea. Obviously." Miranda's eyes lifted, meeting hers in a glare that warned not to press any more. "Or I wouldn't be bringing it up."
Christmas with the Priestlys. The four of them. Like a little family. Andy found her mouth tugging into a bittersweet smile. What if she said yes? And they went. Miranda and her girls and their… friend Andy. Their mother's fuck buddy. The girl's … mentor. Whatever the hell she was.
Too much unspoken. Too much unsaid. Too much Andy wanted that she shouldn't have wanted just yet. Things she was crazy to want, and Lily was right, it was her fault. She put herself in this. She fell in love with the kids and the Mom and there was no level footing.
And now Miranda - sorry, the GIRLS - wanted them to spend Christmas together?
"I don't know if that's such a good idea, Miranda."
Miranda's eyes didn't leave hers. She didn't betray one emotion one way or another. It made Andy want to scream. "Fine," came the low voice, and Miranda returned to her dinner.
Andy's stomach lurched painfully. She was no longer hungry, as she listened to the deliberate clanks of silverware against porcelain. "What I meant was… if I go with you…"
"I said 'fine', Andrea," Miranda replied, tone fiercely even as glinting crystal eyes glanced up and caught her own. "That's all."
The use of Miranda's signature phrase caused a shudder of anger that was impossible to contain. "No, that's not all, Miranda. What if they catch us?!"
The knife stopped clanking. "Pardon?"
"It's one thing to sneak around over here and when they're not at the Townhouse, but what are we going to do? Sneak past each other's bedrooms like some Pink Panther farce? What do we say to them? They're not stupid, you know. They know what sex is."
The look on Miranda's face could have wilted her two years ago. "Have I given you any authorization to discuss sex with my children?"
"No," she spat, feeling overheated and frustrated. "You haven't. But they ask me. Do you know why? Because I see them all the time. Because they call me all the time. Because they want me to take them places-"
"I wasn't aware that was such a bother for you."
She hated… HATED when Miranda made an assumption over a tendril of the truth.
"I didn't say that," she hissed, body stiff with unexpected fury. "I love those girls." That's the problem, she ached to finish. "Do you want to tell them?"
Miranda blinked, eyeing her like she had lost her brain completely. And maybe she had. "… No."
All that admission invited was a stalled, uncomfortable silence.
Flushed, Andy's eyes broke away from Miranda's and drifted again to her plate. "Okay then," Andy breathed, trying to keep her voice steady even if she felt stupidly devastated over Miranda's very frank answer. "Then again, I don't think it would be a good idea to go with your family to the Hamptons for Christmas."
They ate in silence.
When it came time for passion, Andy attacked Miranda with a roughness she had never employed before. Miranda wasn't allowed to touch her that night. Instead Andy buried her hands and her mouth between Miranda's legs and didn't come up once. Ignored every whimper and every plea for mercy, and when Miranda came with a hoarse shout, Andy let her breathe for only a moment, before she pushed her over, slid on top of her, and with her wet fingers, pushed easily into Miranda's ass.
Miranda loved that. And she hated it. Ass play was undignified. And it made her come faster than anything.
Miranda flailed back and clamped onto her, nails digging harshly into her arm, sounding like she was dying. With an arm slung around her shoulders, keeping her tight against her, Andy pushed in deeper. She knew what would happen when it was over.
Mortified at herself, Miranda would ignore her. Andy would go immediately to the bathroom and wash carefully. When she was done, Miranda would be up and dressed, and ready to go, and it would feel like it was supposed to feel. Just an affair. Just a fuck.
Andy was toppling over a point of no return, and before that happened, she needed that reminder. She needed it badly.
But this time, Miranda didn't even give her that.
Upon returning from the bathroom, Andy discovered her lover asleep, sheets tossed over her haphazardly, white hair tussled and falling all over Andy's pillows, looking like some Grecian goddess. Shoulders slumping, Andy snuck in behind her, and pressed a tender kiss against the naked shoulder.
Desperately in love and painfully aching for what Miranda had announced was off limits, Andy almost hated her.
--
Andy really really wanted a drink of water. Her throat was parched, and her head was ringing, and it would have been a REALLY awesome time to feel sorry for herself.
Had she not been so terrified of dying in a tunnel, she would have given in to the feeling.
Her very own secret agent, the eternally polite and ashen-faced Max, seemed to be no better off. But even with no shoes and a ripped tuxedo, the man appeared eternally grounded.
On his haunches, he examined a part of the floor, listening with one wet finger in the air.
"Promising," he informed her, rising to stand and turn toward her. "The markers I have etched into the walls have not resurfaced and I have yet to see our foot prints. That means we're not going in circles. And the draft I'm feeling…" he wiggled his finger at her. "Is still coming toward us."
"So we're getting somewhere," she breathed, and he smiled kindly. The relief that engulfed her nearly made her knees weak.
"Well, yes," he admitted, cheery as ever. "But where we are going, I'm afraid, I have no idea."
"You're so optimistic," she said, but wasn't mad about it. "Do you know the first thing I'm going to do when I get out of here?" Andy whispered as she slung an arm around his shoulder, and nearly staggered, wincing when a rock on the floor cut into her foot.
"See a doctor, I hope," he grunted, and they kept going.
"I'm going to the Hamptons for Christmas."
"That's wonderful. But that doesn't mean we're out of danger," he reminded her, reaching for her as she clutched the wall for support. "We need to do our best to get out of here before Agent 23 finds us. I'm afraid that unless we have some measure of surprise, we'll be completely defenseless."
"Max, has anyone ever told you that you have an absurd need to state the obvious? And that it's annoying?"
--
It was meant to be a day of carnage and retribution. It was meant to be glorious.
The fact that his own daughter had not thought twice about helping out the hostages in his house should not have been as irritating and… annoying as it was.
It was really pissing him off that he was so bummed out.
Dwayne Johnson, aka Agent 23, had learned a long time ago that trust was a rare gift that could be applied to no one but himself.
But his own flesh and blood? The kid brought forth from HIS loins?
Dwayne Johnson had a mother. She had been abandoned by his jack ass father when he was twelve, and Dwayne had been happy. He had been too small. Too puny. Too little to defend himself, even from the bullies at school who stole his lunch money and made fun of the holes in the soles of his shoes.
How was he supposed to defend his mom, the woman who threw herself on top of him to save him from his dad's harsh blows,the burns of his cigarettes? He couldn't. He tried; still bore the scar that etched down his hairline because of it. So many beatings, and he failed her because he couldn't stop it.
When his dad finally left, he was relieved, and felt like a coward because of it.
He fixed that.
At thirteen, he grew ten inches, and got put on the basketball team. He started to get fed at the cafeteria and then got put on the football team. He went All State. He learned how to bench weights, and he packed on muscle. Packed on pounds.
And beat on any asshole who thought they could get away with bullying a kid for no damned reason.
At seventeen, he found his dad. He found the stupid old man working the graveyard shift at a meat packing plant. Lingered in the shadows, breathing in the stench and listening to the cries of dying animals. Followed him to his house and beat him with his bare hands.
He brought him home to his mother, showed her proudly the blood running down the length of his nose like tears, the broken cheek bones, the black and blue mess of a man so unrecognizable. And she had stared him like he was the fucking monster.
Told him to get out. Kicked him out. Called him a demented psycho and begged him to leave her alone.
He wanted to kill her. He didn't. He should have.
He left her there, with her nearly dead beat up shell of an ex-husband. It was his last memory of his mother, spread over that bastard like she used to cower over him, looking up at him like she was seeing a stranger. Like he was his father.
The same woman who would have died for him, now refused to take his gift, to look at him with anything but horror.
He had learned a lesson then. He should have remembered it.
Family wasn't anything but a word.
His own fucking daughter…
And still… the little bitch was SMART. She had figured out the equipment. She had tracked them through the entire operation. Came up with an excuse he could feasibly buy. He would have. He wanted to.
Fucking kid…
To be betrayed by an ex-girlfriend was one thing. A hit to the ego, sure, but fixable. A new face, a few months of planning, and a few hours of carnage…
But his own fucking kid…
Boarding school. He was fucking locking her up for an eternity…
Gritting his teeth, Dwayne eased his way through his tunnels, taking care to keep out of the way of the security cameras that were now documenting his every move.
Fucking kid.
Anger rippled over him like a wave, and he felt like he had back when he was seventeen, punched in the stomach and so desperately angry he wanted to kill something. Rip it apart with his bare hands.
A button hit on the remote he carried in his pocket, and the cameras flitted out.
Ahead of him, recently disturbed dirt wafted through the air, catching the flickering lights like snowflakes. Footsteps scuffed all along the dirt floor, and breathing quietly through his nose, Dwayne smiled, noting the size, the steps, the shimmy of a trained military gait.
He had been invaded. Ten men, one female.
It was just what he wanted. Just what he needed.
99 had always been blind. She should have seen the minute she got into these tunnels that carrying an army of men with her was the equivalent of sending a homing beacon.
Manpower meant nothing in cramped quarters.
She should have known that.
He kept moving, silently and quietly, turning the corner, eyes on the steps, until he heard the scuffles, the whispered commands.
With a grin, he stilled, dropped to his knees. From his belt he removed a sphere, and pressed a button.
As it rolled into the darkness, the whispered wheeze of the smoke drifting from it was the only warning.
Soon there was wheezing. The coughing. The thuds of man and machinery.
Clucking his tongue, he sighed. "Idiots."
In the ensuing silence, he heard it: the click of a safety.
Head shifting, he turned slowly.
Behind him, Agent 99 looked as beautiful and deadly as the gun she brandished.
"You're an idiot," he breathed. "You could have just killed me, instead of giving me a warning."
Though it was barely visible, 99's lips quirked.
"What's the fun in that?" she asked, and then pulled the trigger.
--
Thanks to sex with this girl's father, and the way the tomboy was clinging to her now, Emily had now been touched more in the past day than she had in the past year.
The thought made her instinctively uneasy, and yet Emily garnered there must have been some maternal twinge inside of her, however slight that kept her hands around the girl, one arm curled around her shoulder, another threading fingers carefully through the short brown strands cropped on top of the girl's head.
Emily supposed she could have blamed it on the circumstances. Or the fact that the girl who had before seemed so damned hardened now shook so furiously Emily was genuinely afraid she would break.
Honestly, she preferred to give herself the reason that Dwayne would kill her if he discovered she had made his little girl cry and yet had done nothing. Well, not that he wasn't planning on killing her anyway, but at this point, Emily had graduated to hoping for painless or not at all.
"All right," she whispered, trying hard to keep her voice steady. "All right then. Come on. Please stop." The last words were said perhaps a little harshly, but the girl had started to leak all over her shirt, and Emily was uncomfortable enough.
Thankfully, the girl only eased back, stared at her through pitifully despondent orbs.
Little hands still clutched her, however, and Emily somehow didn't have the heart to remove her completely. "Now," she began, wrinkling her nose when the girl reached between them and picked up her own shirt to wipe at her nose. "Let's begin again. Without the gun or the threats on my life."
"Oh…" Heather sniffled, pathetic in her remorse. "I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize," Emily snapped. "I have first hand knowledge of the lengths one can go in the attempt to land in Miranda Priestly's good graces. And for that? You never apologize."
Heather stared at her, and although Emily didn't think what she had just said had been particularly comforting (only true), the girl actually smiled at her, a broken little tilt of her lips that was even worse than the scowl.
But… damage control. "Now," she began carefully. "Exactly how much does Miranda Priestly know, and who else does?"
Heather blanched slightly, and craned her neck. Following her stare, Emily regarded the figures tripping over themselves in the tunnels. Andy and the ever faithful Max.
"Holy shit," Heather blinked, and eyed the moving dots on the blue print. "He's actually getting them out. He's figured out the maze."
And then the feed went fuzzy… blanked out.
"Compliments of your father, I imagine," Emily sighed, ignoring the startled face of the child. Reaching up to massage into her tight muscles bunching at her neck, she scowled. "I told you he was on to you. Heather, other than Max and Andy, who is in there?"
"This government agent," Heather admitted hoarsely. "I let them into the tunnels. And I told them about you and Dad."
Emily sucked in her breath, eyes closing. God-dammit.
"Well then," she whispered, taking that in. "Death is beginning to look like a pleasurable alternative to what awaits me should Miranda Priestly get a hold of me."
"Sorry."
"I already told you not to apologize," Emily snapped, and pushed the girl back to shoulder length, inspecting her carefully. The urge to panic was welling up deep inside of her, and she could have easily given in to it. She wanted to, badly. It was the state of things for Emily. Neurotic and insane and dedicated to her job, she enjoyed very much to have a good freak out. Up until now, it had been her only real release.
Up until now, Emily's world had only ever existed of Miranda.
Her lips quirked bitterly.
And Miranda had never looked twice.
Damage control.
"Allright," she began, voice rough. "Give me the cell phone." When Heather regarded her suspiciously, Emily rolled her eyes in annoyance. "I'm going to help you," she enunciated, brow arching impatiently. "It's time to save our own skins, and as much as I do fear your father, the worst he can do is kill me."
Heather blinked, but handed the phone over. "What would Miranda do?"
"I'd tell you," Emily said, "But I think you've been traumatized quite enough for one day." She dialed numbers that were memorized years ago, and when a cool, careful voice picked up, Emily did the best she could not to wither. "Miranda," she began, after a moment taken to gather her courage. "This is Emily. Andy and Max are nearing the edge of the tunnels, and we need someone to fish them out."
--
He jerked even as she squeezed the trigger, just like she knew he would.
It was fast, almost too fast, but she followed the movement instinctively, and got what she was aiming for.
The gun in his hand dropped with a dull thud to the ground. He twisted with a pained grunt, and then did the only thing he could: plowed into her with the force of a line backer.
He was heavy, and hard, like he had always been, large, bloody fingers veering toward her throat as he lunged.
They slammed into the wall, two more shots skidding off the walls before she twisted and pressed her elbow between them, allowing the limb to take the brunt of the damage when he brought up a hard knee toward her stomach.
Inches away from her, the unfamiliar of 23 gleamed white teeth at her. "You've gotten better."
"You've gotten lazy," she responded, and shoved the gun between them, wrist wrenching as she buried it into the hard muscles of his stomach.
He was already moving, twisting away from her before she could squeeze off a shot.
And then they were standing no less than three feet apart. The perfect distance. Not too far. Not too close.
Her heart beat wildly, and she struggled to contain her breath.
"Where's Max."
In the dimly lit tunnel, she could barely make out the smirk. "You really love that loser, don't you?"
There was no time. And she was out of patience.
The next shot chipped him off his shoulder, spouting blood in a very satisfying way as he swiveled, landed against the wall.
"Where's Max?" she asked again.
The pain had begun to seep into his eyes, and it unnerved her. Countless missions with Agent 23, he had never lost his cool. He had never been less than the perfect agent.
Their last mission, it had been her. She had been the one who had lost it. She had been the one who had blown it.
And now, over a year later, and here they were. His little endgame, with the faces of strangers and the bodies of lovers, and she wanted to be staring into his old face.
She wanted to look at him and recognize him for the man he was. To put a bullet into the man she remembered would be the perfect way to bury the past.
But this man… his eyes were wild. He was laughing maniacally.
"You never wanted kids, did you?" he breathed, and a shiver of revulsion floated up her spine so fast and so unexpectedly she pulled the trigger again, burying a bullet into his thigh.
"Where's Max?" she asked, voice rough.
He stared at her, with that look she had never seen before, from the face she did not recognize.
"Oh come on," he whispered, for her ears only. "You know you'd have to kill me first." 99 swallowed. "You got to my little girl," he said, nearly growled it. "You turned my little girl."
She gave him nothing.
"My little girl," he continued, and began to rise unsteadily to his feet, bleeding, tripping. "The only person who ever really loved me. You took that away from me the second you tore my face away. Did you know that?"
She wouldn't listen to him. Not after all this. Not now. There was no guilt in her actions. "If you don't tell me where Max and Andy are," she continued, voice steady, unwavering, "I'll make her an orphan."
The smile faded. The glare hardened. He lunged.
The gun shot rang out, exploding in the darkness.
--
Gunshots burst like firecrackers around them, echoing down the corridors with such deafening irregularity it was impossible to tell where they came from.
Huddled together with Andy, Max tried hard to think.
To go forward, to go back… neither were options anymore.
In the darkness. Without weapons. Without orientation. Bleeding and with a concussion…
"Max," Andy whispered, and he shushed her, ignoring her widening eyes when he heard the sound of steps inching through the darkness toward them.
"Hold still," he whispered. "Someone's coming."
Terrified, Andy stayed put, listening to reason for once. Thankful, Max carefully got to his feet, and moved into a fighter's stance.
He would not think of 99. He couldn't afford to.
Instead he would honor her by defending her doppelganger with his dying breath. Plucking up the scattered embers of his courage, Max fisted his palms and spoke loudly into the darkness.
"I warn you!" he began, hearing the echoes of his voice bounce off the walls. "I'm not entirely defenseless without a gun!"
The steps did not falter. They kept coming. Rhythmic. Timed. Perfect.
Almost like… Almost like…
In the darkness, the figure began to take shape the closer it came to the light. When it stepped under a flickering lamp, Max nearly stopped breathing altogether.
"Hymie?!"
--
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: Eventually it'll show up at my own woefully outdated archive
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.
--
CHAPTERS
One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten | Eleven | Twelve | Thirteen
--
PART TWELVE: Into the Rabbit Hole
As much as Andy liked to think she didn't have any regrets, the truth was that her spontaneity got her into enough trouble that hindsight seemed to perpetually haunt her, particularly at this stage in her life.
As to what stage that was, there was no real answer, because it was just getting really really confusing.
To be Miranda's lover was one thing. She could handle that. She could definitely handle that. She loved handling that. Even if at times her secret affair was incredibly inconvenient, particularly with a well-meaning Lily and Doug throwing every Tom, Dick and Harry in her direction at every opportunity, it was worth it.
For every fight with Miranda, there also was a quiet memory. The glide of soft lips pushing against hers, the low growl of a woman with sinfully smooth skin and the heavenly smell of expensive body wash and perfume that wafted over her as she deepened her kiss with a possessive sweep of her tongue licking against perfect teeth. The tell-tale thump of a heart beating mutely as sweat-soaked bodies tangled together in that timeless second when they had both just come and were blissed out of their minds.
That was heaven. And even if the relationship… affair… whatever it was, was filled with doubts and fights and secrets and furtive passionate couplings, at the very least Andy could understand it. She understood an affair.
It was Miranda's children that muddled it all up for her.
Her children and their dog, who in the past few months, had deemed Andy 'theirs'. Who called Andy on her cellphone daily, who demanded visits and walks and never expected to be told no.
Who cc'ed her on their Christmas wish emails to their mother.
"You do realize that you aren't their older sister or actually related to them," Lily told her once, when she caught Andy outside of Doug's birthday dinner at Spago's trying to calm a hysterical Caroline. "You can say no."
"I can't," she told Lily, shrugging helplessly, and went back to trying to explain to Caroline that her life was not over simply because Tiffany from school had managed to get a hold of the new Louis Vuiton shoulder bag before she did.
Lily crossed her arms, regarded her strangely, and shrugged in resignation. "Just remember," she said, in a tone that made Andy falter, "You put yourself in that situation. You don't fall in love with the kids if you're not sure where you stand with the Mom."
Her friend was an artist; she had a keen eye for the subtle. She saw things coming before Andy ever really did, and while she and Lily never discussed what she meant by her statement, Andy had been flabbergasted to realize that night that Lily knew.
Lily knew more than she did.
"The girls have asked if you'll join us for Christmas," Miranda told her later that week, breaking Andy out of her thoughts. Seated across from her, Miranda's eyes were on her food, elegant as always, even when seated at Andrea's IKEA dining room table. "We're going to the Hamptons for the holidays."
Lifting her chin off her fisted palm, Andy realized she had been off in such a daze that she inadvertently let her foot fall asleep. With a grimace, she tried to stomp out the tingle.
She hissed when the pain shot up her foot, nearly dropping her fork.
"Andrea."
Miranda was regarding her with the same closed expression she normally employed when broaching a subject that was deemed controversial between them over their pre-sex dinner. The last time she had used that blank frown, they had nearly thrown knives at each other over Clinton versus Obama.
Exhaling, Andrea's shoulders straightened, and she deliberately placed the fork beside the table. "Are the girls asking or are you asking?"
Miranda's mouth tugged in a barely discernable frown, as she too, placed the fork beside her plate and pressed a napkin delicately to her mouth.
"I wouldn't be opposed to the idea. Obviously." Miranda's eyes lifted, meeting hers in a glare that warned not to press any more. "Or I wouldn't be bringing it up."
Christmas with the Priestlys. The four of them. Like a little family. Andy found her mouth tugging into a bittersweet smile. What if she said yes? And they went. Miranda and her girls and their… friend Andy. Their mother's fuck buddy. The girl's … mentor. Whatever the hell she was.
Too much unspoken. Too much unsaid. Too much Andy wanted that she shouldn't have wanted just yet. Things she was crazy to want, and Lily was right, it was her fault. She put herself in this. She fell in love with the kids and the Mom and there was no level footing.
And now Miranda - sorry, the GIRLS - wanted them to spend Christmas together?
"I don't know if that's such a good idea, Miranda."
Miranda's eyes didn't leave hers. She didn't betray one emotion one way or another. It made Andy want to scream. "Fine," came the low voice, and Miranda returned to her dinner.
Andy's stomach lurched painfully. She was no longer hungry, as she listened to the deliberate clanks of silverware against porcelain. "What I meant was… if I go with you…"
"I said 'fine', Andrea," Miranda replied, tone fiercely even as glinting crystal eyes glanced up and caught her own. "That's all."
The use of Miranda's signature phrase caused a shudder of anger that was impossible to contain. "No, that's not all, Miranda. What if they catch us?!"
The knife stopped clanking. "Pardon?"
"It's one thing to sneak around over here and when they're not at the Townhouse, but what are we going to do? Sneak past each other's bedrooms like some Pink Panther farce? What do we say to them? They're not stupid, you know. They know what sex is."
The look on Miranda's face could have wilted her two years ago. "Have I given you any authorization to discuss sex with my children?"
"No," she spat, feeling overheated and frustrated. "You haven't. But they ask me. Do you know why? Because I see them all the time. Because they call me all the time. Because they want me to take them places-"
"I wasn't aware that was such a bother for you."
She hated… HATED when Miranda made an assumption over a tendril of the truth.
"I didn't say that," she hissed, body stiff with unexpected fury. "I love those girls." That's the problem, she ached to finish. "Do you want to tell them?"
Miranda blinked, eyeing her like she had lost her brain completely. And maybe she had. "… No."
All that admission invited was a stalled, uncomfortable silence.
Flushed, Andy's eyes broke away from Miranda's and drifted again to her plate. "Okay then," Andy breathed, trying to keep her voice steady even if she felt stupidly devastated over Miranda's very frank answer. "Then again, I don't think it would be a good idea to go with your family to the Hamptons for Christmas."
They ate in silence.
When it came time for passion, Andy attacked Miranda with a roughness she had never employed before. Miranda wasn't allowed to touch her that night. Instead Andy buried her hands and her mouth between Miranda's legs and didn't come up once. Ignored every whimper and every plea for mercy, and when Miranda came with a hoarse shout, Andy let her breathe for only a moment, before she pushed her over, slid on top of her, and with her wet fingers, pushed easily into Miranda's ass.
Miranda loved that. And she hated it. Ass play was undignified. And it made her come faster than anything.
Miranda flailed back and clamped onto her, nails digging harshly into her arm, sounding like she was dying. With an arm slung around her shoulders, keeping her tight against her, Andy pushed in deeper. She knew what would happen when it was over.
Mortified at herself, Miranda would ignore her. Andy would go immediately to the bathroom and wash carefully. When she was done, Miranda would be up and dressed, and ready to go, and it would feel like it was supposed to feel. Just an affair. Just a fuck.
Andy was toppling over a point of no return, and before that happened, she needed that reminder. She needed it badly.
But this time, Miranda didn't even give her that.
Upon returning from the bathroom, Andy discovered her lover asleep, sheets tossed over her haphazardly, white hair tussled and falling all over Andy's pillows, looking like some Grecian goddess. Shoulders slumping, Andy snuck in behind her, and pressed a tender kiss against the naked shoulder.
Desperately in love and painfully aching for what Miranda had announced was off limits, Andy almost hated her.
--
Andy really really wanted a drink of water. Her throat was parched, and her head was ringing, and it would have been a REALLY awesome time to feel sorry for herself.
Had she not been so terrified of dying in a tunnel, she would have given in to the feeling.
Her very own secret agent, the eternally polite and ashen-faced Max, seemed to be no better off. But even with no shoes and a ripped tuxedo, the man appeared eternally grounded.
On his haunches, he examined a part of the floor, listening with one wet finger in the air.
"Promising," he informed her, rising to stand and turn toward her. "The markers I have etched into the walls have not resurfaced and I have yet to see our foot prints. That means we're not going in circles. And the draft I'm feeling…" he wiggled his finger at her. "Is still coming toward us."
"So we're getting somewhere," she breathed, and he smiled kindly. The relief that engulfed her nearly made her knees weak.
"Well, yes," he admitted, cheery as ever. "But where we are going, I'm afraid, I have no idea."
"You're so optimistic," she said, but wasn't mad about it. "Do you know the first thing I'm going to do when I get out of here?" Andy whispered as she slung an arm around his shoulder, and nearly staggered, wincing when a rock on the floor cut into her foot.
"See a doctor, I hope," he grunted, and they kept going.
"I'm going to the Hamptons for Christmas."
"That's wonderful. But that doesn't mean we're out of danger," he reminded her, reaching for her as she clutched the wall for support. "We need to do our best to get out of here before Agent 23 finds us. I'm afraid that unless we have some measure of surprise, we'll be completely defenseless."
"Max, has anyone ever told you that you have an absurd need to state the obvious? And that it's annoying?"
--
It was meant to be a day of carnage and retribution. It was meant to be glorious.
The fact that his own daughter had not thought twice about helping out the hostages in his house should not have been as irritating and… annoying as it was.
It was really pissing him off that he was so bummed out.
Dwayne Johnson, aka Agent 23, had learned a long time ago that trust was a rare gift that could be applied to no one but himself.
But his own flesh and blood? The kid brought forth from HIS loins?
Dwayne Johnson had a mother. She had been abandoned by his jack ass father when he was twelve, and Dwayne had been happy. He had been too small. Too puny. Too little to defend himself, even from the bullies at school who stole his lunch money and made fun of the holes in the soles of his shoes.
How was he supposed to defend his mom, the woman who threw herself on top of him to save him from his dad's harsh blows,the burns of his cigarettes? He couldn't. He tried; still bore the scar that etched down his hairline because of it. So many beatings, and he failed her because he couldn't stop it.
When his dad finally left, he was relieved, and felt like a coward because of it.
He fixed that.
At thirteen, he grew ten inches, and got put on the basketball team. He started to get fed at the cafeteria and then got put on the football team. He went All State. He learned how to bench weights, and he packed on muscle. Packed on pounds.
And beat on any asshole who thought they could get away with bullying a kid for no damned reason.
At seventeen, he found his dad. He found the stupid old man working the graveyard shift at a meat packing plant. Lingered in the shadows, breathing in the stench and listening to the cries of dying animals. Followed him to his house and beat him with his bare hands.
He brought him home to his mother, showed her proudly the blood running down the length of his nose like tears, the broken cheek bones, the black and blue mess of a man so unrecognizable. And she had stared him like he was the fucking monster.
Told him to get out. Kicked him out. Called him a demented psycho and begged him to leave her alone.
He wanted to kill her. He didn't. He should have.
He left her there, with her nearly dead beat up shell of an ex-husband. It was his last memory of his mother, spread over that bastard like she used to cower over him, looking up at him like she was seeing a stranger. Like he was his father.
The same woman who would have died for him, now refused to take his gift, to look at him with anything but horror.
He had learned a lesson then. He should have remembered it.
Family wasn't anything but a word.
His own fucking daughter…
And still… the little bitch was SMART. She had figured out the equipment. She had tracked them through the entire operation. Came up with an excuse he could feasibly buy. He would have. He wanted to.
Fucking kid…
To be betrayed by an ex-girlfriend was one thing. A hit to the ego, sure, but fixable. A new face, a few months of planning, and a few hours of carnage…
But his own fucking kid…
Boarding school. He was fucking locking her up for an eternity…
Gritting his teeth, Dwayne eased his way through his tunnels, taking care to keep out of the way of the security cameras that were now documenting his every move.
Fucking kid.
Anger rippled over him like a wave, and he felt like he had back when he was seventeen, punched in the stomach and so desperately angry he wanted to kill something. Rip it apart with his bare hands.
A button hit on the remote he carried in his pocket, and the cameras flitted out.
Ahead of him, recently disturbed dirt wafted through the air, catching the flickering lights like snowflakes. Footsteps scuffed all along the dirt floor, and breathing quietly through his nose, Dwayne smiled, noting the size, the steps, the shimmy of a trained military gait.
He had been invaded. Ten men, one female.
It was just what he wanted. Just what he needed.
99 had always been blind. She should have seen the minute she got into these tunnels that carrying an army of men with her was the equivalent of sending a homing beacon.
Manpower meant nothing in cramped quarters.
She should have known that.
He kept moving, silently and quietly, turning the corner, eyes on the steps, until he heard the scuffles, the whispered commands.
With a grin, he stilled, dropped to his knees. From his belt he removed a sphere, and pressed a button.
As it rolled into the darkness, the whispered wheeze of the smoke drifting from it was the only warning.
Soon there was wheezing. The coughing. The thuds of man and machinery.
Clucking his tongue, he sighed. "Idiots."
In the ensuing silence, he heard it: the click of a safety.
Head shifting, he turned slowly.
Behind him, Agent 99 looked as beautiful and deadly as the gun she brandished.
"You're an idiot," he breathed. "You could have just killed me, instead of giving me a warning."
Though it was barely visible, 99's lips quirked.
"What's the fun in that?" she asked, and then pulled the trigger.
--
Thanks to sex with this girl's father, and the way the tomboy was clinging to her now, Emily had now been touched more in the past day than she had in the past year.
The thought made her instinctively uneasy, and yet Emily garnered there must have been some maternal twinge inside of her, however slight that kept her hands around the girl, one arm curled around her shoulder, another threading fingers carefully through the short brown strands cropped on top of the girl's head.
Emily supposed she could have blamed it on the circumstances. Or the fact that the girl who had before seemed so damned hardened now shook so furiously Emily was genuinely afraid she would break.
Honestly, she preferred to give herself the reason that Dwayne would kill her if he discovered she had made his little girl cry and yet had done nothing. Well, not that he wasn't planning on killing her anyway, but at this point, Emily had graduated to hoping for painless or not at all.
"All right," she whispered, trying hard to keep her voice steady. "All right then. Come on. Please stop." The last words were said perhaps a little harshly, but the girl had started to leak all over her shirt, and Emily was uncomfortable enough.
Thankfully, the girl only eased back, stared at her through pitifully despondent orbs.
Little hands still clutched her, however, and Emily somehow didn't have the heart to remove her completely. "Now," she began, wrinkling her nose when the girl reached between them and picked up her own shirt to wipe at her nose. "Let's begin again. Without the gun or the threats on my life."
"Oh…" Heather sniffled, pathetic in her remorse. "I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize," Emily snapped. "I have first hand knowledge of the lengths one can go in the attempt to land in Miranda Priestly's good graces. And for that? You never apologize."
Heather stared at her, and although Emily didn't think what she had just said had been particularly comforting (only true), the girl actually smiled at her, a broken little tilt of her lips that was even worse than the scowl.
But… damage control. "Now," she began carefully. "Exactly how much does Miranda Priestly know, and who else does?"
Heather blanched slightly, and craned her neck. Following her stare, Emily regarded the figures tripping over themselves in the tunnels. Andy and the ever faithful Max.
"Holy shit," Heather blinked, and eyed the moving dots on the blue print. "He's actually getting them out. He's figured out the maze."
And then the feed went fuzzy… blanked out.
"Compliments of your father, I imagine," Emily sighed, ignoring the startled face of the child. Reaching up to massage into her tight muscles bunching at her neck, she scowled. "I told you he was on to you. Heather, other than Max and Andy, who is in there?"
"This government agent," Heather admitted hoarsely. "I let them into the tunnels. And I told them about you and Dad."
Emily sucked in her breath, eyes closing. God-dammit.
"Well then," she whispered, taking that in. "Death is beginning to look like a pleasurable alternative to what awaits me should Miranda Priestly get a hold of me."
"Sorry."
"I already told you not to apologize," Emily snapped, and pushed the girl back to shoulder length, inspecting her carefully. The urge to panic was welling up deep inside of her, and she could have easily given in to it. She wanted to, badly. It was the state of things for Emily. Neurotic and insane and dedicated to her job, she enjoyed very much to have a good freak out. Up until now, it had been her only real release.
Up until now, Emily's world had only ever existed of Miranda.
Her lips quirked bitterly.
And Miranda had never looked twice.
Damage control.
"Allright," she began, voice rough. "Give me the cell phone." When Heather regarded her suspiciously, Emily rolled her eyes in annoyance. "I'm going to help you," she enunciated, brow arching impatiently. "It's time to save our own skins, and as much as I do fear your father, the worst he can do is kill me."
Heather blinked, but handed the phone over. "What would Miranda do?"
"I'd tell you," Emily said, "But I think you've been traumatized quite enough for one day." She dialed numbers that were memorized years ago, and when a cool, careful voice picked up, Emily did the best she could not to wither. "Miranda," she began, after a moment taken to gather her courage. "This is Emily. Andy and Max are nearing the edge of the tunnels, and we need someone to fish them out."
--
He jerked even as she squeezed the trigger, just like she knew he would.
It was fast, almost too fast, but she followed the movement instinctively, and got what she was aiming for.
The gun in his hand dropped with a dull thud to the ground. He twisted with a pained grunt, and then did the only thing he could: plowed into her with the force of a line backer.
He was heavy, and hard, like he had always been, large, bloody fingers veering toward her throat as he lunged.
They slammed into the wall, two more shots skidding off the walls before she twisted and pressed her elbow between them, allowing the limb to take the brunt of the damage when he brought up a hard knee toward her stomach.
Inches away from her, the unfamiliar of 23 gleamed white teeth at her. "You've gotten better."
"You've gotten lazy," she responded, and shoved the gun between them, wrist wrenching as she buried it into the hard muscles of his stomach.
He was already moving, twisting away from her before she could squeeze off a shot.
And then they were standing no less than three feet apart. The perfect distance. Not too far. Not too close.
Her heart beat wildly, and she struggled to contain her breath.
"Where's Max."
In the dimly lit tunnel, she could barely make out the smirk. "You really love that loser, don't you?"
There was no time. And she was out of patience.
The next shot chipped him off his shoulder, spouting blood in a very satisfying way as he swiveled, landed against the wall.
"Where's Max?" she asked again.
The pain had begun to seep into his eyes, and it unnerved her. Countless missions with Agent 23, he had never lost his cool. He had never been less than the perfect agent.
Their last mission, it had been her. She had been the one who had lost it. She had been the one who had blown it.
And now, over a year later, and here they were. His little endgame, with the faces of strangers and the bodies of lovers, and she wanted to be staring into his old face.
She wanted to look at him and recognize him for the man he was. To put a bullet into the man she remembered would be the perfect way to bury the past.
But this man… his eyes were wild. He was laughing maniacally.
"You never wanted kids, did you?" he breathed, and a shiver of revulsion floated up her spine so fast and so unexpectedly she pulled the trigger again, burying a bullet into his thigh.
"Where's Max?" she asked, voice rough.
He stared at her, with that look she had never seen before, from the face she did not recognize.
"Oh come on," he whispered, for her ears only. "You know you'd have to kill me first." 99 swallowed. "You got to my little girl," he said, nearly growled it. "You turned my little girl."
She gave him nothing.
"My little girl," he continued, and began to rise unsteadily to his feet, bleeding, tripping. "The only person who ever really loved me. You took that away from me the second you tore my face away. Did you know that?"
She wouldn't listen to him. Not after all this. Not now. There was no guilt in her actions. "If you don't tell me where Max and Andy are," she continued, voice steady, unwavering, "I'll make her an orphan."
The smile faded. The glare hardened. He lunged.
The gun shot rang out, exploding in the darkness.
--
Gunshots burst like firecrackers around them, echoing down the corridors with such deafening irregularity it was impossible to tell where they came from.
Huddled together with Andy, Max tried hard to think.
To go forward, to go back… neither were options anymore.
In the darkness. Without weapons. Without orientation. Bleeding and with a concussion…
"Max," Andy whispered, and he shushed her, ignoring her widening eyes when he heard the sound of steps inching through the darkness toward them.
"Hold still," he whispered. "Someone's coming."
Terrified, Andy stayed put, listening to reason for once. Thankful, Max carefully got to his feet, and moved into a fighter's stance.
He would not think of 99. He couldn't afford to.
Instead he would honor her by defending her doppelganger with his dying breath. Plucking up the scattered embers of his courage, Max fisted his palms and spoke loudly into the darkness.
"I warn you!" he began, hearing the echoes of his voice bounce off the walls. "I'm not entirely defenseless without a gun!"
The steps did not falter. They kept coming. Rhythmic. Timed. Perfect.
Almost like… Almost like…
In the darkness, the figure began to take shape the closer it came to the light. When it stepped under a flickering lamp, Max nearly stopped breathing altogether.
"Hymie?!"
--
END CHAPTER.