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Dave was minding his own business, editing a riveting piece about the incline of lost bikes amongst the youth, when scarlet claws clattered on his desk. Looking up was—objectively—his first mistake. Making eye contact with Susan Salinas was his second. Her grey eyes were filled with sadistic glee as a smile stretched her painted lips. “Bossman wants you,” she said, delight poorly masked. Dave forced himself to smile back–hopefully a little more convincing than Susan’s.
He very seriously doubted a promotion was in his future, and his last piece definitely wasn’t worth praise.
At this point, he wouldn’t be surprised if he was strongly encouraged to find other employment. Or perhaps, Max would finally have the balls to fire him. (Because, seriously, how was Dave supposed to know his old college boyfriend ran the only newspaper willing to give a C-average journalism student a shot. And, anyway, it was Max’s whole idea to keep the thing secret instead of disclosing it to HR like a sensible person would and it was Max that was convinced Dave would somehow air their dirty laundry.)
So, Dave slowly pulled himself out of his chair and headed to the office with a placard simply reading Maxwell Reed . He rapped on the door twice before opening it.
“David,” Max acknowledged as he looked up from his computer.
“You wanted to see me?” See, Max? He was the king of casual.
“I wanted to discuss your latest piece,” Max said. “It was…lackluster to say the least.”
Well, that was an especially kind way to say flaming pile of absolute garbage .
“The heart is there, but the words—I mean, you called Captain Holt a lieutenant four times. The typo count is through the roof. You go on a tangent about the animal shelter’s euthanasia statistics. It’s…it’s unpublishable.”
Yes. That was the point. Dave refused to give Captain Holt’s precinct any praise, considering the fact that one of his officers regularly went on a parking ticket rampage. Like, during the last battle, she literally went through and tagged every single car stuck in the war zone. The fact that Holt and his team advocated for adopting from shelters meant nothing, in Dave’s humble opinion.
“Look, you’re a good writer at your core. But you’ve been in a slump,” Max continued. Dave had to stop himself from pointing out that the latest assignments were utter shit, and, perhaps, if he stopped giving Carla and Susan all the actually interesting topics, Dave’s work wouldn’t suck so hard. “I know this isn’t the high-tier publishing house you thought you’d wind up in. But I was hoping…you’d at least try ? So, I pulled some strings, and you’ll be interning at the Daily Planet for a few weeks. Think of it like an opportunity to learn from some of the best in the business.”
Okay. Wow. This was somehow worse than being fired. Him, in his stupid band tees and jeans, in the same room as Lois Lane or Perry White?
“Oh. Um,” he managed out, since it really felt like he should say something. “Thank…you?” He cleared his throat. “I mean, uh, thank you for the opportunity. I’ll try to do better going forward.”
Max nodded, the tiniest smile on his lips. “See that you do.”
Dave promptly fled, collapsing at his desk moments later.
Holy shit. He needed to find some collared shirts and slacks ASAP.
❇❇❇
Two days later found Dave staring up at the concrete and brick building with an artistically rendered globe perched on top. The Metropolis Tribune was still sharing a building with four other businesses in a building that boasted a double feature of rats and mold.
He smoothed his collar, straightened his tie, hiked up his belt, and forced himself to walk through the automatic doors. Cheerfully bland music and blessedly cool air greeted him. A girl that couldn’t be much past nineteen smiled politely as he entered. “Welcome in. Who’s your appointment with?” she said.
“Oh, um. I’m with the Metropolis Tribune. Dave—Dave Kapowlski.”
“Oh! We’re borrowing you for a month, aren’t we?” the girl said, genuinely sounding excited. “I just need to see your ID to confirm. Driver’s license and any proof of employment.”
Dave handed both his license and business card to her. She hummed and grinned as she quickly scanned and typed and fiddled. In moments, the small printer beside her thrummed to life. “Okay. Here’s your pass. It’ll give you access to the elevators and meeting rooms. Don’t lose it. Mr. White gets upset. I’ve notified Sally—Sally Ellis, our Miss Manners—and she’ll tell you who you’re paired with.” She handed him a plastic card, now labeled with his name and a barcode, before adding, “Welcome to the team!”
Dave accepted it, as well as the lanyard she offered.
“Elevator is to your right. Floor 15.”
He followed her instructions, scanning his shiny new pass to open the elevator doors and pressing the correct button. Even the elevator music was nice, Dave was reluctant to note. It was actual acoustic music, instead of the painfully sanitized muzak he’d been subjected to for the near-decade he’d worked for the Tribune. The elevator smoothly slid up to floor 15 and gracefully let Dave out.
Behind glass partitions, the bullpen was filled with chaos—as was expected. Four different people were shouting across the room, a few were actively collaborating, and some were congregating for what was undoubtedly scuttlebutt. A very stunning blonde in a perfectly tailored pantsuit was waiting in the foyer; as soon as the doors opened, she was striding towards him.
“Dave?” she asked, easily sliding her hand in his for a handshake.
“That’s me,” he managed out.
“Sally Ellis,” she said with a grin. “Welcome to the team.”
“Thanks.”
She grinned broader before tugging him towards the bullpen. “Okay, so if you can’t tell, we’re a pretty lively group. Don’t worry if it takes a second to get used to everyone. Honestly, Jimmy, Heather, and Miguel are the calmest—other than your assigned buddy. I don’t even think Clark is even capable of raising his voice.” She laughed, and Dave distinctly felt like he was missing out on a joke. She led him to what looked like a breakroom. “Feel free to help yourself. I’ll go grab Clark.”
Pretty much immediately, Dave found himself at the Keurig, desperately shoving a capsule into the maker while slotting a generic, white Ikea mug under the nozzle. If he was expected to keep up with the people here, he’d have to be heavily caffeinated. In moments, he had his favorite reprieve in hand and was hastily gulping it down.
Sally appeared in the doorway minutes later. “Alright, Dave. This is Clark. You’ll be working together.”
Dave nearly spat out his coffee as a man quite literally ducked and turned to get through a doorway. He was easily 6’2, if not taller, and absolutely fucking built . His posture was atrocious, his clothes garish, but he looked like someone who could crush a watermelon with his bare hands. Instead, Dave swallowed scalding liquid in a large gulp and avoided looking anywhere near that bodybuilder. Look, Dave may now be thirty, but memories of swirlies and being crammed in lockers never faded. Jock McMuscleman could stay right over there, and Dave could scrap his dream of being a halfway competent journalist covering actually interesting pieces. Max could totally afford losing him.
Sally lightly tugged on the behemoth’s horrible, polyester, plaid sleeve to seemingly pull him close to Dave. “Clark’s been on the beat for going on six years now. He had to fight for it—he’s terribly bashful, Perry’s kept him on fluff pieces forever—but he’s our best of the best, really. After Lois of course, but he’s a much softer touch. Helps with shaken civilians, that gentleness.”
Bashful. Fluff. Soft. Gentle.
Bullshit, Dave couldn’t help but think. A guy with the same body mass as Superman was never all of those things.
“I think you two will mesh well.”
Bullshit, Dave repeated.
“Golly, I don’t know if I’m the right choice.” His voice was smooth, light, warm; the slightest accent tugged at his vowels. Clark’s face was beet red as he rubbed the back of his neck. His left leg twitched impatiently as his eyes fixated on an apparently fascinating part of the floor. “Surely Lois would be the top choice. She’s a better reporter.”
“Perry chose you for a reason,” Sally said, elbowing Clark with abandon.
But, okay—Dave forced himself to acknowledge—the guy jumped a mile when Sally introduced him. His timid blue eyes were shielded by thick lenses. He was hunched far enough forward, he could compete with someone with scoliosis. Maybe—just maybe—Clark was actually horribly socially awkward and wasn’t just a jock in disguise.
“Dave Kapowlski, Metropolis Tribune,” Dave decided on saying, offering his hand out.
“Howdy,” Clark said, completely straight faced as he accepted the handshake, and Dave was absolutely shocked to feel how delicate yet normal his handshake was. “Clark Kent.”
Alright. Dave had to test this. There was no way someone as built as Clark could be someone like him. So, he forced himself to admit, “My boss sent me here to stop being a failure.”
Clark’s laughter was clear as a bell. It was almost as bright as the flush consuming his face.
“See? I told you!” Sally cackled.
“But—Perry just threatened—”
“Birds of a feather, Kent!”
Dave, officially, was lost. This was nothing like he was expecting. Realistically, open mocking was the most likely option. Sympathy was slightly less likely, but it was still an option. Whatever this was, though, wasn’t anywhere near what Dave was preparing for.
Clark was bright red and had hunched even more into himself.
“Anyway, I’ll let you two get acquainted. I’ve got a mountain of letters to sort through,” Sally said, patting Clark on the back. She practically twirled away, and Dave was left with a man that was an equal mix of muscles and awkwardness.
Silence stretched for an uncomfortable moment before Dave finally broke.
“So, uh, what pieces do you cover?” he asked.
“Oh, uh, all kinds,” Clark said, rubbing the back of his neck once again. “I sort of fill the gaps. Right now, I’m picking up a piece on the Wayne Charity Gala.”
Dave’s jaw slackened. Holy crap. That was high-tier society work. Most gossip columnists and social rags had to bid to even get close to something like that. Most settled on Luthor’s sporadic fundraisers, or whatever big thing a rich person was doing.
But, well, it made sense someone of Clark’s size was chosen. Gotham was a hellscape. Sending someone like Cat Grant or Jo Walters was just begging them to be kidnapped. Clark could probably drop-kick half of Gotham’s crazies. He might trip over himself and turn into a stuttering, tomato-red mess first, but he at least had a chance of fighting them off.
Dave really should check the valve of his gasmask, thinking about it.
“Wow. I’d kill for something like that,” he said as neutrally as he could manage.
“Oh, it’s really boring. Wayne donates to the same causes every year, usually winds up ridiculously drunk, and flirts with everyone. Every so often, Riddler or Two Face or Penguin attacks it and Batman shows up.” Clark offered a sheepish smile, and Dave arbitrarily decided he thoroughly hated him right then.
He had the world at his fingertips, and he had the audacity to be humble over it.
“But, uh, what are you working on?” Clark asked.
Dave froze. He could mention how Metropolis had seen an increase of 27% in bike theft of youth under the age of fifteen in the last year and how 34% of youth were not able to find their bikes shortly after leaving them in a secure location, or he could mention the article that sent him here in the first place.
“Um, a public safety piece,” Dave settled on, biting back his gripes about Officer Santiago. “There’s been an increase in bicycle theft. The Tribune has elected to notify the public.”
Clark nodded, like this wasn’t entirely ridiculous. “Sounds important.”
It wasn’t. Dave began feeling very justified in hating Clark.
“Let me show you around, and we can workshop your month with us.”
Dave nodded, not because he inherently agreed, but more because it felt like his only choice. He’d much prefer working with Sally. Or even quitting his job entirely at this point, honestly. But, he followed Clark’s loping gate and viciously hoped he might just smack his head on one of the door frames.
This month was going to be hell.
❇❇❇
By the end of the first week, Dave began to realize that there was more to Clark than met the eye.
This wasn’t in some cheesy Hallmark way, though. Rather, Dave was pretty certain that Clark wasn’t the bashful lummox his whole team thought he was.
It started with Perry White. White, objectively, was an asshole. He lambasted Clark over a piece he did the previous week, telling him, quote, “if I wanted that sissy, wishy-washy bullshit, I’d ask for that damn Kansas shit you first brought me. I need facts , Kent. Not feelings .”
Clark had yes, sir -ed and no, sir -ed until White was satisfied. What White had failed to notice was that the pencil Clark had been holding was fully snapped in half, and that Clark’s hand was tight with tension.
The next time Dave fully noticed something was when Clark stubbed his toe on the edge of the printer. Dave learned twelve new swear words that day, in approximately four languages.
But what really set Dave off was when he caught Clark lifting an entire desk up with his bare hands. It had to be easily a hundred pounds of steel and wood, topped with a computer and filled to the brim with paper. Clark lifted it as easy as breathing. It was well over a foot off the floor as Clark rummaged to retrieve whatever slipped under it.
It was late at night, and no one was around other than him and Clark. Dave had slipped away to the bathroom, with a promise to stop by the breakroom for some coffee. Clearly, Clark thought he had a free shot to exercise his freak strength.
But, hell, Dave tried to convince himself, Clark was apparently raised on a farm, and helped out in true country fashion. Maybe slinging hay bales and wrangling cows opened the door to super strength. Yeah, That had to be it. Farm boy strength. So, Dave quietly walked to the break room and allowed himself to hack out some pretty convincing “I choked on my own spit” coughs before emerging with two mugs of coffee. The desk was back on the floor, and a pen was now tucked behind Clark’s ear.
Dave couldn’t help but keep an eye on Clark going forward, though. Throughout his days with him, Dave kept finding out little bits of Clark that didn’t fit what seemed like a carefully constructed persona.
Clark officially broke Dave, though, on their third week together.
They were shoved together in Clark’s cubicle, co-writing a piece about the latest kidnapping victim. Dave had managed to compile a pretty solid dossier about the girl’s life and had gotten some pretty solid statements from her friends and family. Clark had done a lot of heavy lifting though, as he’d succeeded in charming her parents into giving a beautiful statement about their daughter. He was also the primary writer—perks of being the one actually employed at the Planet.
Clark groaned as he leaned back in his chair. “Does ‘she was a beacon shining a light on her family’ sound stupid, or just right?”
“Too sentimental,” Dave countered. “Remember what her mom said? About her community involvement? Try, ‘Elise Daniels made everyone around her feel like they were important. Her family hopes that the person who took her shows the same kindness and allow her family to see their daughter again.’”
“Wordy,” Clarked hemmed, but he began rapidly typing. “Okay. Got it.”
Dave leaned over and scanned the sentence. It was slightly modified, but definitely much better. “Yeah. Perfect.”
Clark stretched languidly. He pushed up his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. As his hands fell away, Dave’s heart leapt into his throat.
Superman was staring at him.
It felt insane—like maybe the sleep deprivation or caffeine overdose was getting to him—but Dave was certain. No other person had eyes that impossible shade of blue. And when Dave studied his face, there was even the dimple in his chin. If he imagined a windswept coif instead of Clark’s messy attempt to wrangle his curls, it aligned perfectly. God, even when Clark unbent his spine from that awful hunch to stretch out, his stupidly perfect physique made sense.
Superman was Clark Kent.
Superman worked as a journalist.
Superman was right in front of him.
Dave choked back panic and instead forced himself to focus on their article. Instead of screaming his revelation to the skies, he instead said, “You have a comma instead of a semi colon here. And this should be P-A-R-E, not P-A-I-R.”
Clark dropped his glasses back onto his nose and squinted at the screen. “Dadgummit,” he muttered before fixing both.
❇❇❇
As tempted as Dave was to expose this secret, he elected to keep the whole thing silent. Not just for Clark’s privacy, but also for the fact that pretty much anyone would think he was insane. It was just a corkboard and some red string away from the tinfoil hat club.
So, he said nothing, refused to acknowledge it, and continued to work with Clark.
But life will find a way, and Dave found himself editing an article right as the office exploded into chaos. Something shattered the window; a metal object rattled on the ground; and smoke filled the air. Screams echoed up from the street.
Clark looked panicked. But not the “I’m human, and Death is calling” kind of panic. This was the anxiety spiral kind of panic. The “I need to do something, but I can’t” kind of panic.
So, if Dave decided to take one for the team and roll on the floor writhing and screaming and evidently freaking the fuck out to keep everyone’s eyes on him, that was just between himself and his internal monologue. And if he noticed Clark slipping away, using the smoke as cover, well, Dave was too busy excising his inner demons with a solid scream sesh to pay attention.
The ensuing embarrassment was well worth the ability to see Superman in action. He effortlessly took down Luthor’s latest robot army while still minimizing city damage.
Okay. Yeah. Maybe he didn’t hate Clark anymore. Maybe it was pretty cool that he balanced being a phenomenal writer with being an intergalactic savior.
❇❇❇
When Clark called Dave up to the roof to “show him the view”, Dave felt dread settle in his gut.
He knew Superman avoided killing as much as possible, but if he had figured out Dave knew his secret, Superman might just be willing to bend that rule.
Clark was leaned up against the giant, ridiculous globe with two cups of coffee in hand by the time Dave arrived. He reluctantly accepted one of the mugs and even more reluctantly forced himself to stay a not-awkward distance from Clark.
“So, you know,” Clark said.
“Yup.” No beating around the bush.
“How.”
“Um,” Dave hesitated. God, it still sounded stupid in his head. “You, uh, pushed up your glasses when we were working on the Daniels piece. Your eyes. And, uh, the dimple. Plus you’re built like a truck—”
“You won’t tell anyone.”
“Cross my heart.”
Clark studied him for a long moment. “Okay,” he said. He took a slow sip. “I have your heartbeat memorized. Batman and the Flash are on speed dial. If you ever even think about telling someone, I will know.”
Dave managed to nod.
Yeah. This was definitely his wildest month yet.
❇❇❇
Dave took a deep breath before entering Max’s office. Alright, Dave, you stared down Superman and dealt with Perry White for a month. It’s just one conversation.
“Welcome back. How was the internship?”
Dave steeled himself. “I want better articles. Or I can take myself and the pieces I co-authored to a publication that actually appreciates my work.”
Max frowned. “I’ve been giving you interesting pieces.”
“You’ve been giving me shit, Max. Since I started here. I don’t know if this is some petty bullshit because we used to date, or if you think that’s actually good management, or what. But what the Planet had me writing was way above what you have ever given me. White is one of the biggest assholes I met, but he actually encourages people to grow. You just let us stagnate and rot.”
“Dave. Can we chill with the hysterics—?”
“Actually. You know what? This is my two weeks. I’m cashing out my vacation time. I don’t—I just—I miss actually enjoying what I write. Even if it’s mundane and boring, if I can actually appreciate what I wrote, it’s worth it. I haven’t felt that here. Ever. So, this is goodbye, Max. For good.”
He spun on his heel and very confidently marched his way to the elevator. Promptly, he buried his face in his elbow and screamed.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Glancing at it told him it was Clark, with a very simple message.
> Are you okay? Heart rate spike.
Dave bit back the manic grin spreading across his face as he typed back.
> peachy. just my daily existential dread kicking in lol .
Jesus.
He had Superman on speed dial.