Chapter Text
Emily stood outside Andy's door, holding the bottle of Dom Pérignon Champagne with one hand and smoothing a non-existent wrinkle from her black trousers - Coach, unfortunately, with the other.
It's been 3 days since she and Andy had become friends. It still felt like a fever dream. Or a hallucination brought on by too much jet lag and not enough sleep.
"Emily! You came! Oh my God, hi!" Andy moved forward like she might actually hug her, then thought better of it and rocked back on her heels, beaming. "You look amazing. As always. Is that, wait, is that champagne? You didn’t have to do that."
Emily raised an eyebrow. "One does not arrive at a social engagement empty handed." She allowed herself a small smile. "Besides, it’s been languishing in my cupboard since Milan. I was saving it for a special occasion, or a nuclear apocalypse, whichever came first. Given current global events, I decided not to risk waiting."
Andy’s eyes crinkled at the corners. "Well, I'm honored to be on par with nuclear devastation." She stepped aside with a theatrical sweep of her arm. "Welcome to Château Sachs. Population: one disaster, several houseplants teetering on the edge of existential despair, and now you. Fair warning, the ficus in the corner is extremely judgmental."
Emily walked across the threshold and immediately catalogued her surroundings. "Charming. It’s very… you."
"I’ll take that as a compliment, even though you said it like you were diagnosing a disease."
"It was absolutely a compliment. I only diagnose diseases when I’m at sample sales," she replied, setting her purse on the console table.
They settled in the living room and Andy produced two champagne flutes that definitely didn't match and definitely came from a thrift store, and Emily poured.
"So," Andy said, once they were seated. "Coach."
"Coach," the newly blonde repeated before taking a long fortifying sip.
"You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to."
"Don’t be absurd. I’m British. We cope by complaining. It’s our national sport." She crossed her legs and her posture relaxed a little. "It’s… fine. It’s perfectly fine. The samples are… accessible. The hours are humane. It’s all terribly civilized."
Andy waited. She had learned, in journalism and in life, that the real story always came in the pause after the prepared statement.
Emily looked out the window at the skyline, then back at Andy and her expression changed.
"It’s ghastly," she confessed. "It’s handbags for people who think Louis Vuitton is too ostentatious. It’s color blocking for the suburbs. I spent three hours in a meeting today debating whether the new crossbody should have gold hardware or brushed gold hardware, and I wanted to throw myself out of the window. The only reason I didn’t is that we’re only on the eighth floor and I’d probably just break an ankle and have to sit through the rest of the meeting in a cast."
Andy pressed her lips together to suppress laughter. "That bad?"
'"It’s a circle of hell Dante was too traumatized to write about." Her hands were moving now. "The creative director wears sneakers. Sneakers. To work. To a place of business. And nobody says anything! Nobody looks at him as though he’s personally murdered the concept of elegance in its sleep. They just… nod. And smile."
"That does sound horrifying."
"You have no idea." Her shoulders dropped, some of the tension leaving her spine. "At Runway, if someone had worn sneakers to a meeting, Miranda would have looked at them. Just… looked. And they would have known. They would have known that their career, their reputation, their very will to live, had been incinerated by nothing more than the angle of her chin. It was art and it meant something. Here, nothing means anything. It’s all just… beige. Emotional and aesthetic beige."
Andy watched her face carefully. "You miss Runway, don’t you?"
Her fingers tightened around the stem of the glass and she looked away again. "Miss is a strong word. I regret… certain decisions." Her voice was quieter now. "Betraying Miranda was the single stupidest thing I’ve ever done. And I once wore nude heels with a white dress to Fashion Week, so that’s saying something."
Andy leaned forward, elbows on her knees, expression softening. "Em…"
"Don’t." She held up a hand. "I know what you’re going to say. Saint Andrea, always trying to fix things, always believing in second chances and redemption arcs and the fundamental goodness of humanity... Miranda doesn’t forgive. She eviscerates. She remembers. She destroys. If I walked into the Elias-Clark building tomorrow, I’d probably burst into flames like a vampire in a church."
"But she also respects loyalty," Andy countered gently. "And talent. You were good. You were so good. She knows that. She knows how much Runway meant to you and still does. Let me talk to her. I could-"
"No." Emily’s voice was firm. "Absolutely not. No. This isn’t a fairy tale. There’s no reconciliation montage set to a pop ballad. There's no moment where Miranda sees me across a crowded room and realizes she was wrong and we all hug it out over cosmos at some trendy bar in SoHo. That's not how this works. That's not how any of this works. But…" She paused and started to smile. "Thank you. For saying it. For… for believing I’m worth that."
"Of course you are."
Emily looked down at her hands, at the champagne glass she was gripping too tightly. When she looked up again, her eyes had changed. The guard was still there, but it was lowering. The drawbridge was coming down, inch by inch.
"You're rather extraordinary," she heard herself say. "Do you know that?"
Andy blinked, then ducked her head and laughed awkwardly. "I what? No. I'm just… I'm just me. I'm wearing jeans I bought at a store that also sells lawn furniture and seasonal decorations. There's nothing extraordinary about that."
She shook her head slowly and watched the way Andy's hair fell across her face, the way she tucked it behind her ear with nervous fingers. "You see people. You always did. Even when you were stumbling around Runway in those loafers. You saw people. You saw me. You saw Miranda. You see everyone. You notice things. You care about things. It's your most irritating quality."
Andy laughed again, but this time it came out strangled, caught in her throat. "Well, you know. Journalism school. They teach us to observe. It's not personal, just… professional deformation"
"It's you," Emily said, and she was leaning forward now. "It's fundamentally you. And it's maddening. And it's…" She paused, let her gaze travel over Andy's face, the curve of her cheek, the fullness of her lower lip. "... beautiful."
Andy tried to swallow and found she couldn’t. "Beautiful," she repeated quietly.
"Yes."
"I… I think I forgot the snacks. In the kitchen. The cheese. Or crackers. Or cheese on crackers. I should-" She shot up from the armchair so fast she nearly knocked over the side table. "I’ll just be a minute. Or two. Don’t move. Stay right there. Please."
Emily listened to the sound of Andy crashing around in the kitchen, a cabinet opening, something falling, a muttered curse, and smiled.
In the kitchen, Andy braced her hands against the counter and exhaled a breath that felt like she’d been holding it since 2006.
What the fuck, she thought. What the actual, literal, documented, peer-reviewed fuck.
She turned on the tap and splashed cold water on her wrists, then remembered she was wearing a silk blouse and cursed. Then she checked her reflection in the microwave door, hair disheveled, cheeks flushed, eyes wild, looking like she’d just been chased through the woods by a very elegant wolf.
"Get it together, Sachs," she whispered to her reflection. "She’s just being nice. British nice. It’s probably cultural. She probably calls cab drivers beautiful. She probably calls her dry cleaner beautiful. This is not a thing. You are not a thing. There is no thing."
But her heart, traitorous organ that it was, continued to pound out a rhythm that sounded suspiciously like Emily-Emily-Emily.
She took three more deep breaths, straightened her blouse and grabbed a bowl of olives - were these still good? They were probably still good - and a box of crackers, before walking back into the living room.
Emily hadn’t moved. She was still sitting on the edge of the couch, but her posture had shifted. She looked looser, as if she had shed a layer of armor while Andy was gone. Her head was tilted back against the cushion, eyes half-lidded, watching Andy with the predatory focus of a cat who had figured out how to open the canary’s cage and and was simply deciding whether to toy with its prey first or go straight for the kill.
"Snacks," Andy announced, voice cracking on the word. "I have snacks. They’re not much, but they're… here."
She set the bowl and the crackers on the coffee table and sat down on the couch. Not in the armchair this time, but on the cushion next to Emily.
"So," she said, her tone several octaves higher than nature intended. "Work’s been crazy on my end too. The new piece on sustainable fashion, I’m interviewing this designer who makes trousers out of seaweed, which sounds uncomfortable but is apparently very ethical, and-"
Emily moved.
She cupped Andy’s face gently, so gently, like Andy was something precious, and pulled her into a kiss.
Andy whimpered against her mouth and went absolutely still for one, two seconds. Then her brain caught up with her nervous system, and she was kissing back.
Emily’s tongue swept against hers and Andy’s hands found her waist, pulling her closer, pulling her in.
When they broke apart, both breathing hard, Emily’s lipstick was smudged. It was the first time Andy had ever seen her less than perfect, and the imperfection was so erotic that she felt dizzy.
"Oh," Andy breathed. "Oh, fuck."
"Yes," she agreed, voice rough. "That seems to be the general idea."
"I thought you said we weren’t making it weird."
"We’re well past weird, darling." Emily’s thumb traced Andy’s lower lip. "We’re in uncharted territory. I hope you have a map."
"I don’t. I don’t have a map. I don't even have a compass. I barely have a sense of direction. Emily, are you sure-"
She cut her off with another kiss, which lasted longer and was deeper this time.
"What do you want?" Andy whispered against her lips.
"Everything. I want everything. And I want it now." Emily pushed her back against the couch with a hand flat against her chest. "You’re wearing too many clothes," she observed, fingers already working at the buttons of Andy’s blouse.
"You’re one to talk. That top is probably worth my salary."
"Then tear it off me." Emily’s eyes glittered. "I dare you."
Andy didn’t need to be told twice. She sat up enough to grip the hem of her top and pull it upward, and then Emily was in her cream colored bra - La Perla, obviously, because Emily Charlton would rather die than wear cotton, and Andy’s mouth went dry.
Emily reached behind her back, unhooked her bra with a single motion and let it slide from her shoulders. Then Andy began cupping her breasts with trembling hands, feeling the weight and warmth of them, the way Emily’s breath hitched when her thumbs brushed over sensitive skin, the way her eyes fluttered shut and her head fell back.
"Bedroom," she gasped. "Now. I refuse to be deflowered on a piece of furniture from West Elm."
"It’s Crate and Barrel, actually."
"I don’t care if it’s the goddamn Louvre. Move."
She stood, pulling Emily up with her and they stumbled toward the bedroom in a mix of laughter and kisses against doorframes.
Emily’s hands were under Andy’s blouse, and the brunette was fairly certain she walked into a wall at one point, but she couldn't be bothered to care because Emily was making these small sounds that went straight to her core.
They fell onto the bed in a heap, Emily on top. She pinned Andy's wrists above her head with one hand - and god, when had that become hot? - and looked down at her with an expression that was divided into hunger and worship.
"Tell me to stop," she said quietly. "Tell me to stop, and I will. I’ll walk out and we’ll never speak of this again and I’ll send you a very polite Christmas card until one of us dies. But if you don’t tell me to stop, Andrea Sachs, I am going to ruin you. Do you understand? I am going to ruin you for anyone else."
Andy looked up at her, at this impossible, terrifying, brilliant woman who had somehow ended up in her bed. "Don’t stop," she whispered. "Please. Ruin me."
Emily's smile was feral. She let go of her wrists and sat back on her heels, looking down at her with dark, gleaming eyes. "Take off your trousers. Slowly. I want to watch."
She obeyed, her fingers fumbling with the button of her jeans, suddenly selfconscious under the weight of Emily’s gaze. She shimmied out of them, leaving her in her underwear, plain, serviceable, definitely not La Perla and fought the urge to cover herself.
Emily’s expression softened. "Stop that," she murmured, leaning down to kiss to her chest and thn her stomach. "Stop thinking. You’re beautiful. You’ve always been beautiful. I just never allowed myself to look."
"Emily-"
"Shh." She hooked her fingers in the waistband of Andy’s underwear and pulled them down slowly, pressing kisses to the inside of her thighs as she went. Andy’s breath stuttered and her hips bucked involuntarily toward the heat of Emily’s mouth.
"Patience," Emily chided against her skin, and the brunette felt the vibration of her voice everywhere. "We have time. Unless you have somewhere to be? A seaweed-trouser emergency?"
"No," Andy gasped. "Nowhere. Just here. Just you."
Emily made a soft, pleased sound and settled between Andy’s legs, looked up one last time with dark eyes and then lowered her mouth.
Andy cried out, back arching off the mattress, hands flying to Emily’s hair.
Emily was good at this, of course she was, she was good at everything she bothered to do, with a wicked, teasing tongue that circled and flicked and sucked in a rhythm that made Andy’s vision blur at the edges. She moaned loud and Emily responded by sliding two fingers inside her and Andy’s world narrowed to a single, brilliant point of light.
"Oh God,” she panted, hips rolling helplessly against Emily’s mouth. “Oh God, Emily, I-"
"Not yet," she murmured against her. "Not until I say. Hold on, darling. I want to feel you fall apart."
She set an unrelenting pace, her fingers thrusting deep while her tongue worked Andy into a frenzy. Andy could feel it building, a tight, hot coil in her belly, growing brighter and tighter with every stroke. She was making sounds she had never heard herself make, desperate, begging noises and Emily was drinking them in like wine.
"Please," she sobbed, her fingers white-knuckled in the sheets. "Please, Em, I can’t-"
"Now," Emily commanded. "Come for me, Andrea. Now." She sucked hard and Andy came with a scream that she was pretty sure the neighbors heard.
Emily gentled her through it, her fingers still moving slowly, drawing out every last tremor until Andy was limp and gasping. Then she crawled up the bed and collapsed beside her. "Hi," she said, her voice smug and soft.
"Hi," Andy managed. "I think I died."
'You didn’t. I would know. I’ve seen death, and it’s less vocal." She traced a circle around Andy’s nipple, making her shiver. "You’re stunning and so adorable when you come."
Andy turned her head to look at her, at this impossible woman who was lying naked in her bed and touching her like she was precious. "Your turn," she said, her voice gaining strength. "Fair’s fair. I want to touch you."
Emily’s breath caught, the smugness faltering for just a moment. "You don’t have to-"
"But I want to." Andy rolled toward her, propping herself up on one elbow. "Let me. Please?"
She hesitated, then nodded and lay back against the pillows.
Andy took a moment to look at her, the sharp collarbones, the small, perfect breasts with their pale pink nipples, the narrow waist and the curve of her hips. She was a work of art, and Andy was suddenly terrified of getting it wrong. "Tell me what you like," she murmured, pressing a kiss to her shoulder.
"Everything," Emily breathed. "Anything. Just… touch me. I’ve been thinking about your hands on me for longer than I care to admit."
Andy started slow, tracing the lines of Em's body with her fingertips, learning her like braille. She kissed her way down Emily’s throat, her collarbone and the valley between her breasts. Took one nipple into her mouth, rolling the other between her fingers, and the blonde gasped while arching her back.
"Harder," she demanded. "I’m not made of glass. I won’t break."
Andy bit down gently, and Emily cried out while her hands flew to Andy’s hair. She switched to the other breast then, sucking and nipping until the Brit was writhing beneath her.
"Andy," she panted. "Please. I need you inside me. Now. Don’t make me beg."
'I might like to see you beg," Andy teased, but her voice was raspy with her own arousal and she was already sliding her hand down Emily’s stomach, to where she was wet and hot and ready.
"Another time," Emily gasped as Andy’s fingers found her clit and circled lightly. "I swear to god, another time, but right now if you don't -oh-fuck!-"
Andy slid two fingers inside her, and and Emily fell apart with a speed that was almost embarrassing. "Don’t stop," she sobbed. "Andy, don’t you dare stop-"
"I won’t,” she promised. "I’ve got you. Let go. I’ve got you."
She came with a cry that sounded like a prayer and a curse all at once. Andy gentled her through it, slowing her fingers, pressing soft kisses to her trembling stomach until her body relaxed.
The two lay there without saying anything for a long moment. Then Emily started laughing softly.
"What?" Andy asked, lifting her head, suddenly worried. "Did I- was that-"
"I just…" She covered her face with her hands, shoulders shaking. "I just had sex with Andrea Sachs. I think I’ve lost my mind."
Andy grinned. "You started it."
"I did, didn’t I?" Emily lowered her hands and turned her head to look at Andy with bright eyes. "I don’t regret it. That’s the mad part. I don’t regret it at all."
Andy reached out and took her hand, threading their fingers together. "Me neither."
They cuddled for a while, trading kisses and soft touches. Andy felt herself drifting, safe and warm and happier than she had been in years, when Emily’s voice cut through the haze. "We should talk about this," she said quietly.
Andy’s heart stuttered. "Okay. Talk."
Emily sat up, pulling the sheet around her chest, and Andy felt cold where her warmth had been. "I’m not… I’m not good at relationships. I’m spectacularly bad at them. I’m demanding and critical and I work eighty-hour weeks and I have two kids. I don’t want to hurt you. I would rather die than hurt you, which is precisely why I think I might, accidentally, because that’s what I do."
Andy sat up too, pullling her knees to her chest. 'Okay. So… what are you saying?"
"I’m saying…" Emily ran a hand through her hair. "I’m saying that what just happened was… amazing. And I don’t want it to stop. But I also can’t promise you… I can’t be what you might want me to be. The girlfriend. The person who knows how to be soft. Because I’m not soft, Andy. I’m sharp edges and panic attacks."
She looked at her, at this woman who was so terrified of being known, of being loved, and felt pain in her chest. "What now? I mean, what are we now?"
Emily took a breath. “Pals. With Benefits. We see each other. We do… this. But we don’t put a label on it. We don’t make it complicated. We enjoy each other and when it stopps being enjoyable, we stop. No hard feelings. No drama. Just… this."
Andy was quiet for a minute. She knew, with a clarity that terrified her, that she was already in too deep. That she had fallen for Emily. She knew that "Pals with Benefits" was a lie, at least for her. But she also knew that Emily was skittish, that she was cornered, that if Andy pushed for more, she would run. And Andy would rather have pieces of Emily than none of her at all.
"Okay," she said cautiously. "Friends with benefits. I mean Pals. No labels. No pressure. Just… this."
Emily's shoulders sagged with relief and she leaned in to kiss her. "Thank you," she whispered against her lips. "Thank you for understanding."
Andy kissed her back, smiling even as her heart cracked a little. "Of course. That’s what pals are for."
They lay back down together again, Emily curling into her side and head on Andy's chest.
Andy stroked her hair and stared at the ceiling. I love you, she thought. I love you, and I am so completely screwed.
And as Andy drifted off to sleep, she didn’t see the way Emily’s fingers tightened against her skin or the way Emily’s eyes opened in the dark, bright and wet and full of the same terrifying, unspoken truth.
I love you, Emily thought, pressing her face into Andy’s shoulder, breathing her in like oxygen. I love you, and I am so completely screwed.