Chapter Text
The Daily Planet buzzed the way it always did—phones ringing in sharp, impatient bursts, keyboards clacking, voices overlapping in constant shock of urgency. Somewhere across the bullpen, a printer jammed and someone swore under their breath. The air smelled faintly of ink, burnt coffee, and ozone from overworked machines.
Michael Wheeler—the face of the Daily Planet—barely registered any of it.
His focus was locked on the glowing screen in front of him, blue light reflecting off his freckled face as his fingers flew across the keyboard. Paragraphs formed, deleted, restructured. Facts aligned, quotes sharpened, conclusions honed into something that could cut.
He was chasing the final threads of a story that refused to stay quiet, the kind that crawled under his skin and demanded to be finished right.
Another deadline. Another fight worth picking.
That familiar tension sat comfortably between his shoulders, a tight coil of pressure that kept him alert, sharp, alive. This was where he thrived—where noise became background, where stress translated into clarity. Chaos with a purpose. A world that made sense because he understood the rules, because he knew how to push, where to dig, when to strike.
He didn’t look up when a shadow fell across his desk.
“You’re still on this segment?” a voice spoke behind him. “I would’ve expected the famous Mike Wheeler to have gotten this done ages ago.”
Mike’s fingers paused for half a second—just long enough to save his work—before continuing. He rolled his eyes lips pressing into a thin line. He didn’t need to turn around to know exactly who it was. There were only a handful of people in the newsroom who felt comfortable enough to needle him mid-deadline, and fewer still who did it to get a rise out of him.
Will Byers.
Photographer. Lead illustrator. Chronic instigator. And, most importantly, Mike’s best friend since kindergarten.
Mike finally stopped typing and leaned back on his chair, turning just as Will dropped onto the empty seat beside him. Will wore the same easy smirk he always did when he thought he’d won some unspoken game, as he nudged Mike’s shoulder with his own.
“Relax,” Will added lightly. “I’m just saying—rumor has it you used to be faster.”
Mike snorted, cracking his knuckles. “Rumor has it you’re procrastinating on your own work.”
Will grinned wider, completely unbothered. “Touché.”
For a moment, the noise of the newsroom faded back in around them, and the familiar rhythm settled once more. Mike turned back to his screen, irritation already melting back into focus again.
They worked in comfortable unison, the kind that only came from years of shared deadlines and unspoken understanding. Mike refined his segment line by line, trimming excess, sharpening language until every sentence carried weight.
Beside him, Will sketched in broad, confident strokes, graphic whispering across the page as a magazine cover slowly took shape under his hands.
Around them, the afternoon buzz of the newsroom settled into something steady and familiar—phones ringing less urgently now, conversations lowering into focus murmurs, the collective rhythm of people deep in their work. It was the lull before the next rush, and Mike welcomed it.
Then the front doors opened.
At first, Mike didn’t care enough to look up. The Planet saw a constant stream of walk-ins—sources with shaky leads, activists demanding coverage, civilians chasing justice, or their fifteen minutes of fame. The doors opened barley registered as anything more than background noises.
Will, however, looked up.
His pencil paused mid-stroke.
A second later, he nudged Mike with his elbow.
Mike sighed, irritation flickering briefly across his face and he leaned back in his chair and followed Will’s line of sight.
She stood in the middle of the newsroom, framed by glass ans fluorescent light, as if she’d stepped into the wrong scene of a movie. There was a hesitation to her posture, subtle but unmistakable, as if she were waiting for someone to tell her she belonged there. Her dark, wavy-curly hair bounced slightly with every small movement, catching the light as she turned her head. Thick-rimmed glasses rested neatly on her nose, perfectly aligned, as her eyes moved carefully across the room.
She wasn't wide-eyed.
She wasn't overwhelmed.
She was assessing.
Mike’s gaze snagged on one small detail clipped to her jacket—a Daily Planet ID badge —and then felt it. Sharp and unwelcome. A strange, almost physical awareness, like a shift in the air pressure before a storm. The rhythm of the room adjusted itself around her, conversations faltering just slightly, movements slowing in ways no one seemed conscious of.
He frowned.
A new hire.
The newsroom had never been kind to them. Most people tolerated rookies at best, resented them at worst—but Mike was honest enough to admit he was firmly in the latter camp. New hires slowed things down. They asked too many questions, missed deadlines, and cracked under pressure. Or worse—they came in chasing the idea of the Daily Planet, the name, the prestige.
It had happened before.
Someone thought the byline alone would make them important, thought proximity to real journalism was the same as earning it. They never lasted. They burned out, got fired, or quit with some variation of the pressure’s too much—a phrase Mike had come to despise.
“Is that a new Hire?” Will muttered.
He didn't answer. Mike studied her, searching for something—anything— that might explain why she's here any ulterior motive, and if she did actually want to work if she could break easily.
There was nothing.
He should've stopped searching.
He should've turned back to his screen, finished his segment, beaten the deadline like he always did. The story was half-finished, waiting patiently for his attention. Instead, his fingers hovered uselessly above the keyboard, tension creeping into his shoulders as Perry White, their boss emerged from his office.
White clapped his hands once, sharp and commanding, the sound cutting cleanly through the newsroom.
“Listen up everyone,” he announced.
Chairs shifted. Conversations died down. Mike reluctantly tore his gaze away.
“We’ve got a new hire.” White continued, gesturing towards the woman. “This is Jane Hopper. She'll be your new coworker so I expect you all to treat her with respect like how you all showed when you first started here.”
A beat passed.
Then the room came alive with greetings—hellos and welcomes overlapping in a friendly wave. Jane smiled, a small, polite curve of her lips, and lifted her hand in a restrained wave. It wasn't flashy. It wasn't rehearsed.
It felt Intentional.
“Since she is new,” White added, clearly not finished, “I need one or two volunteers to show Ms. Hopper around the Planet and get her started.”
Silence.
Not the awkward kind—no shuffling feet or coughs—but the kind that came from collective avoidance. Eyes dropped back to desks. Screens suddenly became fascinating.
A second passed.
Then another.
White's jaw tightened. His gaze swept across the bullpen, already deciding who was about to lose the option of choice.
Mike noticed immediately—and just as quickly angled his chair away, eyes glued firmly to his monitor. He didn't have time for this. Tours were informative. Disruptive. And he definitely didn't have the time and patience to babysit a new hire.
“Mike Wheeler and Will Byers,” White said.
Mike closed his eyes.
Will, on the other hand, looked like he'd just been handed front-row tickets to something interesting. He raised his hand instantly, with enthusiasm written all over his face.
Mike dragged his hands down his face, exhaling slowly before lifting his own in reluctant acknowledgment. He glanced at Jane despite himself.
She was smiling at both of them, offering another small wave—friendly, composed, unreadable.
Mike turned away.
He didn't return it.
**
Time blurred in the way it always did inside the Planet—minutes folding into each other beneath fluorescent lights and endless corridors.
By the time they reached the far side of the building, Mike's patience had worn thin.
The two young men were doing as they were told.
Giving Jane a tour.
Will treated it as a guided museum walk. He slowed at every doorway, pointing out departments with the enthusiasm of someone who genuinely loved the place. Investigations to the left. Editorial upstairs. Archives in the back—don't get lost in there unless you want to disappearfor hours.
He peppered the explanations with anecdotes, small stories about late nights and close calls, about who to ask for favors and who to avoid when deadlines got tight.
Jane listened. Really listened. She asked questions when Will paused, thoughtful ones, the kind that showed she was already mapping the place in her head.
Mike, meanwhile kept moving.
He cut in constantly—redirecting them down shorter hallways, bypassing entire sections with a dismissive, “You won’t need that yet, or “That’s not relevant.” His strides were longer, sharper, clearly designed to force the pace forward. If he could make this quick, maybe it would stop feeling like an intrusion.
It didn’t.
Jane’s temples throbbed faintly as she followed, her grip tightening on the strap of her bag. The constant stops and starts, the half—explanations, the way Mike seemed determined to stay half a step ahead—it all grated. She prided herself on control, on clarity. This felt like neither.
A while passed that—long enough for the novelty of the tour to wear thin, long enough for the tension to be noticeable even to Will.
He cleared his throat, trying to recalibrate the mood.
“Soooo,” he drawled, flashing Jane an easy smile. “Jane, right? What are you actually working here to do?”
She hesitated—not from uncertainty but from deliberation. “A reporter,” she said finally. “Yes.”
Will lit up immediately. “That’s cool! My buddy over there—“ he nodded toward Mike, who was already halfway down the hall again “—he’s a reporter too. Michael’s kind of a big deal around here.”
Mike stiffened mid-step.
The sound of his full name landed like a pebble in his shoe—small, irritating, impossible to ignore.
“Mike,” he corrected flatly, not bothering to turn around. “And we’re burning daylight.”
Jane's eyes flicked between them, catching the tension with unsettling ease. “He’s very…efficient,” she said.
Will snorted. “That’s a word for it.”
Mike stopped walking.
The hallway felt narrower all of a sudden, the low hum of the newsroom bleeding in from every direction. He turned slowly, irritation already shimmering beneath his skin. He didn’t like being talked about like he wasn’t there. He liked it even less when a tour he never wanted had turned into commentary.
Will also stopped walking but Jane stepped up close to Mike.
Not aggressive—deliberate. Closing the space with a quiet confidence that made Mike's chest tighten. He got a closer good look at her face, sweet chocolate brown eyes observing him as she did in the newsroom earlier.
He didn’t like it. Didn’t like being looked at a puzzle to be solved, a story in need of editing.
“You seem interested in finishing this tour heistly,” she said. Her voice was even, controlled—but patience had thinned. “As if I don’t deserve one.”
Will blinked. “Uh—he’s just—“
“I don’t know what I did to make you not interested in showing me around,” Jane cut in, never breaking eye contact with Mike. “I’ve never seen someone try to make a new person fail on their first day.”
Mike felt the heat crawl up his spine. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Isn’t it?” she asked. “You’ve interrupted every explanation. Redirected three times. You haven’t asked once what I needed to know.”
The words weren’t sharp—but they were precise.
Mike folded his arms. “You’re new. You’ll learn by watching.”
Jane’s jaw tightened.
“I learn by understanding,” she said. “And you’re making it unnecessarily difficult, Michael.”
There it was again.
His name, intentional. Controlled.
Mike straightened. “You don’t get to psychoanalyze me in my own workplace.”
“And you don't get to treat me like I'm an inconvenience,” She shot back.
The silence that followed was thick, uncomfortable, stretching just long enough to make Will visibly uneasy.
“Okay,” Will said carefully. “Maybe we should all just—”
“No,” Jane interrupted, finally breaking eye contact as she turned away from Mike. She adjusted her bag on her shoulder, movements clipped now, all professionalism pulled tight. “This isn't productive.”
Mike frowned. “Excuse me?”
“I’ll just find my own way,” Jane continued. “I came here to do my job, not argue with someone who apparently doesn't respect their co-workers.”
Will looked between them, alarm flickering across his face. “Jane, it's really not—”
“I’ve seen enough,” she said, already walking past Mike. “Thank you for your time.”
Her heels clicked against the floor with purpose as she disappeared back into the maze of the newsroom.
Mike stood there, stunned.
For half a second—just one—something like guilt tugged at him. Then he rolled his eyes, shoving the feelings aside.
“Well,” Will said after a beat. “That went great.”
Mike dragged a hand through his dark curls with a buzzing through his skin.
**
Mike knew he was doomed.
He knew White was going to hear about it somehow— he always did. The Daily Planet thrived on information, and not all of it came from printed stories. There were eyes and ears everywhere, tucked into corners, listening just a little too closely. Nothing stayed quiet for long.
The workers loved gossip.
And snitching.
Normally, the knowledge would’ve crawled under Mike’s skin. Normally, he’d be halfway through rehearsing his defense already. But right now, didn’t let him stop him. He stayed exactly where he was, shoulders hunched forward, eyes locked on his screen as he finished his segment.
He finished it at last.
The final sentence landed cleanly. The cursor blinked at the end of the article, He exhaled slowly and leaned back in his chair, letting the tension drain from his shoulders. For a brief moment, the world narrowed to the soft hum of the newsroom and the satisfaction of a job done right.
Then he turned his head.
Will was still working, pencil moving in steady, confident strokes as he sketched. But his eyebrows suddenly drew together, his focus faltering enough for Mike to know—he’d been noticed. A moment later, Will turned fully toward him, irritation written plainly across his face.
“What?” Mike asked, genuinely confused.
“Mike,” Will said slowly, carefully, like he was choosing his words so he wouldn’t snap. “What you did was rude. And I’m honestly surprised you still haven’t realized it,”
Mike scoffed, shaking his head. “It’s not my fault—“
“Tell me how it wasn’t your fault,” Will cut in sharply. “You're rushing the tour. You keep cutting me off. And Jane was right—you treated her like she was an inconvenience.”
Mike straightened in his chair, irritation flaring hot and immediate. “Why are you so pressed?” he shot back. “You only met her, what—like half an hour ago?”
Will didn’t raise his voice. That somehow made it worse.
He shook his head, disappointed settling in his expression. “God forbid I call you out when you do something shitty.”
Mike opened his mouth, already forming a response—something sharp, something defensive—but he never got the chance.
A shadow fell across his desk.
White’s assistant stood there, posture rigid, eyes fixed squarely on Mike.
“Mr. White wants to see you,” she said.
Before Mike registered what that meant, or came up with an excuse—she turned around and walked away. His stomach sank.
He was in deep trouble and he knew exactly why.
Will exhaled slowly beside him. “..Good luck,” he said, not sounding particularly optimistic.
He swallowed and stood, already bracing himself for whatever waited on the other side of whites office.
**
Mike wasn't particularly scared of being scolded.
He was scared of the punishment.
Perry White had a way of handling his employees—he didn’t yell, didn’t fire people on the spot. That would’ve been easy. Instead, he’d punished people by assigning dry cleaning or taking away our health insurance over time if it really got serious.
But he also makes people do jobs that were completely against their interests as a form of punishment. And how did he know exactly that would hurt? Gossip floating through the newsroom. Casual confessions. The things you foolishly admitted on your job application.
What really scared Mike was that he didn’t know what was coming.
He stopped in front of White’s door, inhaled deeply, then pushed it open.
The office felt exactly as it always did—cramped, cluttered, and heavy with history. Framed headlines covered nearly every inch of wall space, layered over one another like proof of survival. Stacks of paper surround a broad, battered desk at the center. As if the room itself were under siege. Light poured in from the windows behind it, sharp and unforgiving, catching dust motes in the air.
It didn't feel like an office.
It felt like the nerve center of the newsroom—busy, loud even in silence, and impossible to ignore.
“Ah yes, Mike. Take a seat,” White said, gesturing casually.
He finished scribbling the last line of whatever he’d been working on before looking up. Mike pulled the chair slowly and sat, forcing himself to meet Whites gaze.
“You asked of me, Chief?”
“Mike, Mike—what did I say about the name?” White said with a hint of amusement. “Stop calling me Chief,” White joked
Mike chucked despite himself. Maybe this won't be so bad after all?
“So,” White said easily, leaning back. “What happened on that tour?”
Shit.
Mike forced his shoulders to relax, adopting the calm detachment he used during hostile interviews, another hostile source trying to rattle him. “Nothing happened,” he said evenly. “There was a misunderstanding.”
White folded his hands over his stomach, Expression unreadable. He didn’t look angry either, which was way worse. “That’s interesting,” he said. “Because I’ve heard quite a few versions of something happening.”
Mike opened his mouth, then closed it. He could already feel it—the glances, the whispers, the way the story had written itself without his input.
“You rushed the tour,” White continued. “You dismissed a new hire. And you managed to turn what should’ve been a ten-minute courtesy into a newsroom spectacle.”
“I didn’t dismiss her,” Mike said quickly. “She—she left on her own.”
White raised an eyebrow. “Because you were disrespectful.”
That word landed heavier than Mike expected.
White sighed and stood, moving toward the window. He stared out at Metropolis, the distant hum of the city bleeding through the glass. “You’re one of my best reporters, Mike,” he said. “You bring in good stories. You don't back down. That's why I keep you around.”
Relief flickered in Mike‘s chest.
“But,” White added, turning back, “you don't get to decide who belongs here.”
Mike’s jaw tightened.
“You don't own this place,” White continued. “And you don't get to intimidate new talent.”
“I wasn't trying to intimidate her,” Mike said.
“No,” White agreed. “You were trying to ignore her. Which is worse?”
Silence stretched between them.
White leaned against his desk. “So here’s what’s going to happen”
Mike braced himself.
“Jane Hopper came here to be a reporter,” White said. “So why not give her the experience she needs, one—on—one with the top reporter at the Daily Planet?”
Mike’s stomach dropped.
“You, Michael are going share your reporting role with her.”
“What?” Mike blurted out before he could stop himself.
“You’ll co-report. Same assignments. Same deadlines. You’ll collaborate, compare notes, and turn in joint work when I ask for it.”
“That’s not how I work.”
“I know,” White said simply. “That’s the point.”
Michael’s fingers curled into the arms of the chair. “With all due respect—“
“You don’t have a choice,” White cut in. “Which brings me to option two.”
Mike's chest tightened.
“You can take a three—week suspension or longer, depending on my discretion. No pay.”
The words echoed in the small office.
A suspension.
No newsroom. No leads. No deadlines. No purpose.
White watched his face carefully. “Think of it as time to cool off.”
Mike swallowed. His pride screamed at him to refuse—but the thought of being away, of empty mornings and silent nights made his chest ache in a way he didn’t want to examine.
The Planet wasn’t just his job.
It was where he mattered.
Mike straightened. “Fine.”
White’s eyebrow lifted. “Fine?” he didn’t sound surprised. If anything, he sounded like he’d been waiting for the answer.
“I’ll share the role,” Mike said tightly. “I can work with her.” The words tasted wrong in his mouth.
White studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “Good. I expect professionalism. From both of you.”
Mike stood. “Anything else, Chief?”
White smirked. “Careful.”
Mike left the office already dreading what came next. Somewhere in the bullpen, Jane Hopper was probably settling in—unaware she’d officially become a thorn in his side.
His partner.