outlast trials ♡ mother gooseberry ♡ prerelationship ♡ second person pov ♡ ofc ♡ ao3
Saying you are nervous would be an understatement. That's all right, you're not saying anything and no one is asking anyway. The questions will come later and you cannot wait to detail today's design with its accessories. You are great at your job, which should be no surprise given how much you like it. And how much you like her.
Phyllis Futterman is a lot of things; a successful TV host, a functional addict and the best employer you've had in your life. More importantly, though, she's your own personal nightmare today. Strongwilled, eclectic and with no regard for your education or skill in dressmaking, these wardrobe sessions are something you've come to look forward to as much as you dread them. You don't often get to rant on about fashion like this and she makes for an attentive, if often critical, audience. It's intense enough when you do this at the studio, surrounded by the rest of the team, and this is the first time she's coming to the newly acquired atelier. Your newly acquired atelier, because that's how good the show is going. It's, of course, in the corporation's name; but she's given you free range to set up shop. When she does things like this you think she might have a sliver of professional respect for you. As she gave you the news, though, she'd offered to get at least part time staff, in case you found it overwhelming, eyes glinting patronisingly. Of course you raised to the bait, biting out the type of reply that has her wondering why would anyone ever think Brits are polite outloud.
As she rushes in today clad in one of your works, a side smile breaks through when you see her despite yourself. You do good work. She wears it even better. You serve an early tea while showing her your sketches, and she's vocal about both your hits and what she considers your misses. She objects vehemently to a tulip sleeved new look dress the colour of gooseberries.
'That green is nasty.'
'It pairs well with the red in the headpiece, it's simple colour theory!'
'Gooseberry?' she leans over your notes. 'I didn't take you for the literal type.'
'I figured Americans like slapstick so much, let's not bother with any intricate symbolism.'
'It's too muted for a kid's show.'
Her voice is calm, refusing to acknowledge your words, and she is, ultimately, right. Maybe that's why you're spitting mad about it. Then again, it's always been easy for her to get a raise out of you. She turns the pages while you sulkily pour yourself more tea, and examine her expression from the corner of your eye. She's got such a commanding presence it's hard not to be put off when she dislikes something you've invested so much time into. You've been having fourteen hour days, trying to get the workshop together in record time all by yourself. And you do want her recognition. She's a remarkable artist and her show is on the rise, fresh off the war. Would it kill her to reciprocate an ounce of the regard you hold for her, as an entrepreneur? Unaware of your thoughts, she continues to flip through the lookbook. Or not.
'Don't pout. It's just the business'
'I'm not.'
'Brat.'
That catches you by surprise so much the scowl you give is only halfhearted. But it shouldn't, really. She's prone to flying into character, specially when you're working on this.
'Your pretty mouth in your pretty face would make a pretty smile.' She says, singsongy.
You huff, not as annoyed as you should be, and make a point of showing as many of your teeth as you can, lips tight in an unnatural expression. She shakes her head, amused. 'Are you serious, about the pants in a children's show?'
'Well, if it's all bad you can set it aflame.' you give a disinterested shrug. But you were, and tried to make them as feminine as possible to get around that.
She gets up and for a second you're sure you've finally exasperated her. It's a thrilling thought; part of you has been working for it since the job interview. Part of you is devastated. But she doesn't make to start a fire, or stalk out of the room like anyone should after almost an hour of your attitude. She sits down next to you, and you feel your breath hitch.
'Do you know why I hired you?'
You look down, unable to stop an embarrased flush from rising on your face. Shake your head once. And the truth is you don't. You've got a difficult personality, no American accreditations and a penchant for last decade's fashion. An ugly weight sets on your throat, and she forces you to look at her with a firm hand under your chin. You should get up and walk away, because otherwise you might start crying, and that's gonna make the rest of your antics look incredibly professional by comparison.
'Words.'
'No, I don't.' Your voice is clipped but even.
'You couldn't stop arguing with me during our meeting, and I knew you'd bring me designs I'd hate.' You try to look away, but she brings her other hand up, holding you with more strength than you expected. 'I knew you'd make clothes that had no place in this line of business.'
'I'm-' you hate apologising, but the truth is you're quite argumentative. 'I'm sorry.'
'If I wanted you to be sorry I wouldn't have hired you.'
'What?'
'You have ideas, ideas that anyone would dismiss as improbable, but you're set on them. I wanted to know how far you'd go I still do.' She sighs, resembling a weary mother so much it might make you cry had you had one. 'And of course I don't think it's all bad.'
You close your eyes, and manage to even out your breath. You don't know how to thank her, or for what even, so you deflect. 'So,' your voice is raspy now and you clear your throat before continuing. 'So what you said about the green...?'
'Awful.' Despite that, she looks fond as she shakes her head, releases you. Can't win them all, you figure. 'Terrible. Now, are you going to show me the dummies, or what have you even been doing here all week?'
