Chapter Text
Today could not get any worse.
You clocked in like usual. Nothing new. Totally accidentally avoiding your actual duties as an intern and skimming the news for anything remotely interesting to check out in the field.
Then your boss, the Editor-in-Chief of the Daily Planet, called you in. Not that that was unusual, either. Unfortunately, your closest friend at the Daily Planet seemed to have selective hearing and only tend to catch the parts that might get you all in trouble. Not her fault those were always the most interesting leads to chase for a story, she would alway say.
No, what made today the worst was that you got sent to the morgue.
Not an actual morgue full of dead bodies, you didn’t have the stomach for that. You got sent to the newspaper morgue. Endless rows of flimsy filing cabinets lined the walls, most taller than you, with boxes of film reels haphazardly stacked on top. Almost every daily edition, interesting clippings, all theoretically, filed away in its proper drawer, in its proper cabinet.
Or so you were told.
In reality, the morgue was a disaster. Faded labels. Years jumbled out of order. Some folders completely bare of any identification. Your job today? Organize it.
Which is exactly what you’d been doing. Since six o’clock this morning. Well, five fifty, actually. Like your Pa always said: if you’re not early, you’re late.
You were perched on a scarily flimsy plastic chair, an absurdly overstuffed manila file balanced in your hands. It held a whole month’s worth of papers from 1989.
The days were completely out of order, and you were doing your best to piece them together while making sure nothing disintegrated in your fingers. Because even though every one of these had already been scanned and archived digitally, Perry insisted on keeping the physical copies.
“Simpler this way,” he would say. “More reliable.”
So, with your headphones snug over your ears, you got to work. At least you didn’t get dragged into interviewing some B-list celebrity or photographing some college football practice like your friends had.
Maybe it was the music. Maybe it was the creeping sense of boredom. Maybe it was the fact that you hadn’t seen him in months, but you didn’t notice him sneaking up on you until it was too late.
A hand on your shoulder. A voice in your ear.
“So this is the morgue, huh?”
“Jesus—!” you yelped, jolting so hard that the stool beneath you cracked with protest due to you gripping it. However, if not for your instinctive grip on the seat, you might’ve shot straight into the ceiling.
Whipping around in the chair, you were met with a very welcome sight.
“Mark! Hey!” A grin split your face. You wrapped your arms around yourself, half to contain your excitement, half because you didn’t quite know what to do. “You’re back! And here! Why are you here?”
“You not happy to see me?” Mark asked easily as he straightened up, crossing his arms over his chest, as he smiled down at where you remained seating. That smile of his, the one with the dimples, spread across his face.
“Wha—of course I’m happy,” you said quickly, standing up and pushing your glasses higher on your nose. You spared a glance at the now-cracked chair and gently nudged it aside with your foot.
“Well, I thought about texting,” he said, rocking back on his heels, “but figured I’d surprise you. I know how much you love surprises.”
You squinted at him, unimpressed. Your hatred for surprises was well known and often ignored amongst your friends. Although some more than others.
Mark just grinned wider. “Besides, I’m here to rescue you from this glorified broom closet,” he added, leaning casually against the doorframe.
“Hate to break it to you, but my shift isn’t over,” you said, gathering up the file you’d nearly forgotten. You carefully adjusted the papers inside, straightening the clippings like they hadn’t been abandoned for the last several minutes.
“What? But it’s four.”
A beat.
“It’s what?”
Mark laughed. “You seriously didn’t know what time it was?”
“There’s no clock in here!”
“You have your phone!”
“Yeah, for music,” you shot back, frowning at him. “I don’t exactly doom scroll like you do.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he said, waving you off. “Come on. I’m starving, and you look like you probably haven’t eaten since sunrise.”
You hesitated, eyeing the disorganized stack of folders still waiting for you. “I really should finish this.”
“Should,” he said, stepping into the room and gently prying the file from your hands, “isn’t the same as will.” He raised a brow. “You’ve probably been here since, what? Six? Perry can survive without you for one afternoon.”
You sighed. “Fine. But if I get chewed out—”
“I’ll take the blame,” he said instantly. “Heroic of me, I know.”
You rolled your eyes. “That’s not heroic. That’s just decent.”
Mark grinned again, handing the file back so you could tuck it away. “Then I’ll settle for ‘decent’ and the chance to split a pizza with you.”
You paused, one hand hovering over the filing cabinet. “Thin crust?”
“Obviously.”
“Half pineapple?”
He made a face. “Why do you always ruin perfectly good pizza?”
“Because I can.”
Leaving the closet, you grabbed your small brown messenger bag and tucked your headphones into their proper pocket. The walk to the front of the building was a maze: down a flight of stairs, through a maze of cubicles, around two corners, and finally, the elevator down to the lobby.
How Mark had managed to find you at all was a mystery.
With polite goodbyes and a short chat with the sweet older woman at the front desk, you stepped out of the Daily Planet into the golden light of late afternoon.
“So, where did you say you went again?” you asked, trailing just slightly behind as Mark walked upstream against the crowd on the sidewalk.
“Family emergency out of state,” he replied with a shrug, still facing forward. He didn’t glance at you, just kept walking, hands tucked in his pants pockets.
“Oh. That’s— Is everything okay?” you asked, stumbling a bit as you sidestepped someone walking a bit too close for comfort. You caught yourself quickly, but the moment passed awkwardly.
“Yeah, everything’s fine. Just took longer than I thought it would,” he said, brushing it off with another shrug. But there was something off, an air of distance he didn’t usually have. He turned toward you with a quick smile. “How’ve you been, though? How’s your dad?”
“Pa’s fine. His cough came back, so that’s been a thing. But he’s stubborn. Ma’s good too, back home.” You answered half-absently, still watching Mark out of the corner of your eye. He wasn’t limping. No bruises. No bandages. But something still felt… off.
Mark held the door to the pizza place open, and you murmured a quiet thanks as the warm smell of garlic and tomato sauce welcomed you inside.
Like always, always familiar voice called your name.
The old man who ran the place, Mister Rossi, stepped out from the back, his mustache twitching with his wide grin, eyes kind and crinkled. “It’s about time you came around, Kent! The missus was worried you weren’t eating enough when I told her you stopped visiting.”
You laughed, now more than a bit embarrassed, as he looked over you both before his gaze settled to you again, already waving you both toward your usual table. “The usual, yeah? I’m making it two, you look like you need it. You need someone to feed that appetite of yours.”
You and Mark exchanged a glance, silently acknowledging that there was no winning this argument. Mark reached for his wallet and handed over a twenty as you chimed, “Thanks, Mr. R.”
“Sit, sit! I’ll bring it out fresh,” Rossi said before disappearing into the kitchen with a wave.
You sank into your usual booth and watched Mark across the table. He was tapping a rhythmic pattern into the wood with his fingers, eyes drifting toward the window but not really looking outside.
“So,” you said carefully, “want to tell me what really took you so long?”
Mark glanced at you, a flicker of hesitation in his expression before he covered it up with another smile.
“What makes you think there’s more to it?” he asked, voice light, but not quite casual.
You gave him a look. “Because I know you. And you’re being weird.”
He huffed a quiet laugh and leaned back in the booth. “I’m not being weird. You’re just suspicious.”
You crossed your arms, eyebrows raised.
Mark looked at you for a long second. Then, softly: “Some stuff happened. I can’t talk about it here.”
Your posture straightened slightly as your voice lowered unintentionally. “Is it bad?”
He hesitated again, then smiled, more tired this time. “No. I don’t think so at least. But it’s big.”
The scent of fresh pizza cut the tension for a moment as Mr. Rossi reappeared with two fresh hot pizzas and a pair of Cokes.
“Eat first,” Mark said, nudging a plate toward you as he kicks you underneath the table. “Then I’ll tell you.”
The two of you slipped easily into casual conversation. You both catching up on the last few months. Well, mostly you catching up. Mark was seemingly dodging every question you threw his way about where he’d been or what he’d been doing.
It was only when you’d finally had enough and opened your mouth to call him out that the door to the pizzeria flew open with enough force to nearly knock the bell off its hook.
You and Mark both turned at the sudden noise, just in time to see two familiar figures burst in.
Lois Lane and Jimmy Olsen. Both panting, red-faced, and out of breath. Although Lois still had enough steam to spot you instantly, march across the room, and grab your arm with a vice-like grip.
“We need to go. Now,” she said, already trying to pull you out of your seat.
You let yourself budge. Not right away. You stayed just seated enough to let her get some leeway.
“Wait, what? Why?” you asked, eyes flicking back toward Mark to see his reaction but before he could answer, his phone started to ring.
He checked the screen, smiled a little too casually, and gave you a short wave. “You can go ahead. I’ve actually got something to take care of too. We’ll catch up later.”
You let Lois and now Jimmy tug you fully out of the booth, but your eyes stayed on Mark. “You sure?”
“Positive,” he said, already backing toward the exit on the opposite side. “I’ll call you after.”
“Let’s go!” Lois cut in before you could say another word, yanking you toward the door.
“Sorry for stealing her!” Jimmy called cheerfully and completely unapologetic over his shoulder as he trailed behind you.
Once outside, you gingerly dug your heels in an attempt to stop them. “Okay, what was that all about?” you demanded, frowning as they both were determined to keep you moving down the street at a fast pace.
“Prison break,” Lois said, practically bouncing with excitement. “Big one. High-profile, powered inmates. We’re going to be the first on the scene.”
Of course she wanted to be front and center. It could be the story that finally earned the three of you real bylines. Real journalists, real photographer, not just interns.
But your stomach twisted anyway.
Because you weren’t just a journalist. You were also the only one of the three of you who could take a hit from a rocket launcher and keep moving. And Lois and Jimmy, well, they were brave. Brilliant, even. But not bulletproof.