Chapter Text
When it comes to dating, you only have two rules you categorically won’t break: no mixing business with pleasure, and no getting involved with single parents.
It’s not personal, you rationalize. Contrary to popular belief, rules are not meant to be broken, they’re meant to avoid further problems, which would inevitably ensue if you were to break them.
You have mixed business with pleasure once, in your sophomore year of college; but it turns out that spending most of the time you have with your project partner in between their legs just means trading a few mediocre orgasms with an A, and subsequently spending the rest of the semester kissing your professor’s ass for a second chance.
Now, you admittedly have no experience in dating single parents, but a couple of your friends have actually fulfilled societal expectation by producing offspring, and you absolutely do not want any part in that.
First of all, you do not like kids. Maybe some of them are less intolerable than others, but you have never met a pleasant child.
Second of all, kids do not like you. Your older sister, bless her heart, tried to make you her first daughter’s godmother years ago, but the kid would scream bloody murder whenever you would, albeit reluctantly, try and hold her -no, scratch that, when her mother would shove her into your arms would be more accurate-, so the title was given to some of your sister’s former sorority sisters. You’re happy to just be the cool aunt who brings her cool gift whenever you visit, anyway.
And, third of all and probably most important, a single parent’s priority is always their children. Not that you blame them, of course; in fact, you believe that’s what makes a parent great, but you want to be a girlfriend, not a step mother.
So, those are your dating rules, and if there’s one thing you have never been, it’s a rule breaker.
~
The day starts great.
You wake up on the couch of your studio apartment in yesterday’s clothes, your dried mascara glueing your eyelashes together so that you can barely open your eyes. There’s a half empty bottle of white wine on the coffee table, not one glass to be seen, and your phone is buzzing under one of your asscheeks.
It’s eight forty AM.
“Fuck!” you spring upright, the familiar feeling of a hangover headache effectively waking you up. The floor is freezing under your bare feet as you bolt into the bathroom, assessing the gravity of the situation. Your hair is mussed up in the most horrendous way, but throwing it into a bun is an easy fix for that. The white blouse you have on is only slightly wrinkled, something that would usually be enough for you to freak out over, but you only have twenty minutes to get at work and your makeup to wipe off and redo, so you’ll have to work around it.
Once you have put on a fresh dose of mascara, some concealer under your eyes and a swipe of lip balm, you grab a protein bar from the kitchen pantry and stuff it into your messenger bag before scurrying off to the front door, where you almost topple over while putting on your sensible work heels.
Fortunately for you, ArchiVision’s New York office is based in Manhattan, just a fifteen minute walk away from your place, but, with your frantic pace, you should be able to make it at-
“Eight fifty-eight, miss.” the man at the front desk smiles at you, “I was sure today would be my lucky day.”
“I told you not to waste your time with this bet, Scott.” you pant, swiping your identification badge over the scanner, “I am never late.”
With a click of your tongue, you point a pair of slightly awkward finger guns at Scott and walk backwards until you’re around the corner, where you cringe at yourself. God, you need to stop getting wine drunk on work nights.
“Oh, blimey!”
The impact of a chest against your back almost sends you to the floor on all fours: what a way to greet your boss in the morning.
“I’m so sorry, Mister Maximoff!” you squeal, turning around.
Vincent Maximoff, or Vision, as he calls himself and insists everyone else does, too, is honoring his British status by being too preoccupied with his spilled cup of tea than he is about your bumping into him shoulders first.
The feeling of warmth and wetness making its way down your right shoulder has you turning your head and pinching the wet fabric of your blouse to pull it off your skin.
“Oh, dear, are you alright?” he grimaces, his cheeks turning bright red as his face contorts in horror.
You wave your hand dismissively. “It’s fine, I have a change of clothes in my bag.”
“Oh.” he frowns, confused, “Why?”
“Long story.” you sigh. You make your way to the women’s restroom to the right of the lobby, calling behind your shoulder, “Sorry about your tea!”
~
After a long bathroom break, and now in a new, clean blouse that looks pretty much identical to the one you’ve now shoved into your bag, you finally drop onto your chair, groaning.
You take a moment to breathe and let yourself feel peaceful. The first thirty minutes of your day have been shit, but it can only get better, right? You place your bag in your lap, searching for your protein bar -the first one you’ve taken from the otherwise on its way to expire box, because last week you had one of your ‘I should probably have a healthier diet’ phases- and your reusable water bottle, the blue one with a turtle sticker your niece gave you. The protein bar is gone within three bites, leaving your mouth tasting funny and your stomach still empty, which causes you to take a gulp of water to try and wash it down. As you’re drinking, you pull open one of your desk drawers, fishing out a blister of painkillers. Workplace headaches are not a novelty to you, so you swallow one of the few pills left and turn on your computer, ready to start another day of staring at AutoCAD and Grasshopper.
The first two hours of your work day go surprisingly well, only a few stomach growls and no particularly hard task. You’re designing the interiors of a new location for a fast food chain, which means you’re pretty much copying and pasting and working around awkwardly placed pillars. All in all, you reach your lunch break with little to no problem. You manage to get to the cafeteria downstairs before the lunch rush, which means you actually get to eat sitting down instead of queuing for most of your break time and having to eat at your desk. It’s all sailing smoothly, and you’re already picturing your evening: you’ll get home, kick off your shoes, order Chinese food and finish that bottle of white wine -which you’ll regret doing tomorrow morning, but that’s a problem for tomorrow you- and then watch the latest trending, definitely trashy movie on Netflix and fall asleep. Actually, you’ll need to squeeze in a shower, since your emergency deodorant can only do so much.
It’s the perfect plan. Nothing can ruin your day, absolutely nothing.
~
Actually, the words ‘You’ll working with Barnes’ can ruin your day.
You’re just happily saving your work for the umpteenth time, just in case Grasshopper crashes, when Vision’s secretary clears her throat behind you and informs you that Mister Maximoff would like to see you in his office.
“Thank you, Callie.” you sigh, closing the page and standing up, “I like the new braids, by the way. Cool design.”
Her pearly white smile lights up her face. “Thank you, my cousin did them.”
“Oh, has she managed to open her salon yet?” you ask her, walking down the corridor with her on your left.
“Not yet, but she says she’s getting there.”
Once you reach the boss' office door, you knock. “Well, let me know when she’ll be inaugurating the place and I’ll try to pop by.”
Callie smiles at you and nods just as you hear a ‘Come in’ from the other side of the door, so you wave at her and comply.
“What’s up, boss?” you ask, only slightly concerned. Vision has always been a good, understanding boss -you should know, having worked for him for the better part of a decade- and your work has never been anything short of flawless, but there’s still some nervous voice in the back of your head telling you that you’re about to get fired after the tea incident this morning, even though you were the one who risked a first degree burn.
“Sit down, sit down.” he gestures to the chair on the other side of his desk, “I have excellent news for you.”
Well, that’s promising, at least, even though Vision is a pretty whimsical, pretty British guy that is known for his frequent hyperbolic choice of words. Either way, you do as he asks, taking a seat in front of him.
“I’m sure there’s been some chatter around the office for a while about a rather important project we’ll be taking on.” he barely contains his smile, “You’re one of the most creative people in this office, if not the most creative, and we will have to knock it out of the park- quite literally, actually.”
As he snickers at his own, still unexplained joke, your heart starts speeding up. This may be it, you think. He confirms it a moment later. “I’m aware that you have been waiting for a break out opportunity, if you will, and I think this could be it. If you’re up to the task, of course.”
“Yes.” you say before even thinking, “What is it?”
“The Metropolitan Museum of Art is looking to expand. They would like us to design and build a separate venue on the other side of the Obelisk.”
Yes, this is it. This is what will make your name go down in architectural history. Renzo Piano, Frank Gehry, you.
You may be getting a little ahead of yourself, but still. This isn’t an opportunity you’ll simply let slip from your fingers.
“Of course, you know that, as much as we trust our architects, we try and pair them with one of our engineers to guarantee optimal performances.”
Who the fuck cares, you think. Engineers are mostly there for double checking the physics that architects already calculate and be on the actual construction site. You have never once heard of one of the firm’s engineers actually making important changes to a project. Of course, that’s if you don’t include-
“Oh, there he is. Come in!” your boss calls, and your blood freezes in your veins at the sight of the man who opens the door. “You’ll be working with Barnes.”
Shit.