Chapter Text
Cat Grant braced herself for the worst. Another year, another anniversary. She couldn’t even cry in a cab, much less an Uber. No, Cat Grant had to cry on the subway like everybody else. Thankfully, she had mastered the art of restraining tears. She allowed herself a single, elegant drop down her cheek, just prominent enough that she hoped at least one ripped former rookie inquired after her well-being and just subtle enough that a certain desk mate wouldn’t–
“Watch out! Coming through! Don’t ask!” Olsen skid just in front of her as she pushed herself through the rotating doors desperately in need of a good greasing. He had already bolted across the street and around the corner. If he had said anything else, it was droned out by the cacophony of cabs.
“I wasn’t going to!” He was definitely out of earshot. Fuck today.
Cat sighed, smoothed her recently touched-up blonde hair and buzzed her ID through the security turnstyle.
You can stay home today, if you want. Have you even taken a sick day in your life?
Lois Lane meant well. Lois Lane always meant well, but there was something about the gentle encouragement that twisted around itself in Cat’s gut.
I don’t need coddling.
She had typed out and deleted some variation of the message several times over. Instead, she sent:
I’m alright. I’ll see you in a bit.
She received no response.
Alright was a terribly overrated sentiment anyway.
The elevator always liked to take its time. At least it gave her a moment to breathe, to pause, to straighten her spine and stride into the office.
“What’s crackin’ Cat-accino?” Lombard, had, predictably taken over the length of three desktop spaces with a smorgasbord of scattered and crumbled notes, scores, and rosters.
“Spring cleaning, are we?” Cat shoved the papers aside, haphazardly throwing her day-to-night tote on the desk.
“‘Spring training, more like it. Did you see the Meteors last night?” He was met with only a disgruntled stare.
“I don’t watch sports.” Cat peered up at him from behind her Mac laptop, with its sleek, rose-gold case.
“You should;” Steve retorts in between bites of a reeking bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich, “Meteors games are technically entertainment.”
“You have ketchup in your mustache.” That was all she said. Lombard did not back down.
“I meant for that to happen. This way, chicks know I eat sandwiches the right way.” Steve sat back in his chair, smugly crossing his arms over a slightly protruding gut.
Cat cocked an incredulous eyebrow. It was less perfectly arched than she imagined (only slightly). Cat, knowing she certainly looked more elegantly self-satisfied in her mind, made a mental note to consider tattooing at least a bit of her brows so she wouldn’t be caught embarrassed when making a point to Steve Lombard in the future.
“There’s a right way?”
“Bacon, egg, cheese, salt, pepper, ketchup.”
“How…precise.”
“I saw it on an influencer’s ‘how to spot a real Metropolis man’ Tiktok.”
“You can’t possibly look me in the eye and tell me with full sincerity that you’re on
Tiktok.”
“Of course I am!” Steve scoffed, whipping his phone from his pocket. “See?”
Sure enough, there on Steve’s screen was a video of himself in front of the Metropolis hockey arena. (CONNER PLEASE GIVE ME A BETTER TERM FOR THIS YA DORK). Cat, honestly, didn’t pay attention to most of what he was saying.
“Your shirt doesn’t fit you here. You really put this on the internet? I can literally see your stomach hair, Lombard. Run some of these things by me next time.” Cat Grant pressed her index finger to the middle of the screen. “You should be centering your face. I can still see the rink perfectly clear and you can avoid all those ‘Go on a diet!’ comments that way.”
Cat slid the phone back to him, resuming her work (“work” was such a strong term for perusing the Real Real). Out of the corner of her eye she could see him open his mouth, waver, and then close it again. Steve Lombard looked back at his own laptop without so much an utterance.
Fuck , Cat thought to herself, that may have been too far .
“Steve.” Cat’s voice rang clear. He raised his head. “I’m sorry. It’s a weird day.”
“Bet.” He nodded. “It’s all good, Cat-aract.” He offered finger guns.
The words on the screen before her blurred together. Purse listings blended into haphazardly drafted articles about some premiere she really, really didn’t want to attend to begin with. It was just yet another blockbuster in which a grizzled, yet attractive, man goes on a revenge quest to avenge his child’s death. She didn’t even get to interview the actors or director anymore. But she did have to sit through a press conference run by fucking Joe of all people, who platitudinized some slimy bullshit about how he needed this movie. Her temples pulsed. Her vision blurred further.
“Steve,” Cat nudged his ankle with the toe of her pump, “Where’s Lois?”
“Not in, today.” He replied with a full mouth, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.
“Again? Isn’t she our editor-in-chief?”
“Supposedly.”
“Well is Clark here?”
“Nope. On assignment”
“And Olsen just about bulldozed me as I was walking in. Is anyone in charge today?”
A beat. Steve bit his lip, the tip of his tongue jutting out between his front teeth ever so slightly to lick at the corner of his mustache. He hoped Cat didn’t notice.
“Three hour lunch?” A hopeful glint illuminated in his expression. “Hear me out: anything not to be here.” When he spoke, he slammed his laptop shut, something akin to mischief shimmering in his chestnut-brown eyes.
Cat looked back at her screen, at Joe’s smarmy, rehearsed grimace, at her half-written recap, and then at the cocked, bushy brow of Steve Lombard.
“Steve, I–I–” No words came out, try as she might. Cat did not want to be there. The buzz of the environment around her suddenly made her feel jumpy . Maybe Lombard was on to something.
“Who’s going to tell on us? My sister?” Cat’s eyes darted to the far end of the room where, through glass doors, she could see Lisa Lombard fiddling with some new gadget. “Come on, Cat-astrophe. It’s one of those days.”
A pause. A breath. A glance.
“Fine.”