Chapter Text
The post-modern ghost town of an empty corporate office greys in the late Metropolis evening. You’re the only soul left in the fluorescent skyscraper topped with the glowing orb that denotes the Daily Planet.
The electric scan of the copier and shuffle of pages into the tray create a steady rhythm for the monotony of your overtime scramble. It’s the big monthly meeting in the morning and you’re to have everything ready for the editors and journalists that would crowd into the conference room. You would have been done if it wasn’t for the crashed server that had you running back and forth between IT and Kelly from the politics imprint.
You turn and begin to sort the collated pages, stapling the stacks of budgets, goals, and performance charts into neat stacks. You sense a shadow in the doorway and look up, knocking half your pile to the floor as the figure watching you makes you jump back and give an embarrassing holler.
“Jesus, Clark,” you touch your chest and look down at the mess, “I didn’t think anyone was here.”
“Sorry, I stuck around to get some last minute edits in,” he says kindly as he comes around. He kneels with you as you shuffle the papers into a single pile, your work more tedious now that you’ll have to sort them again.
“It’s fine,” you force a chuckle, “just want this day to be over.”
“I’m sorry to make it longer,” he says as he stands and you follow, placing the papers back on the table and he drops his handful on top, “I’ll help tidy this up.”
“You don’t have to,” you say, “I can handle it. Besides, you have way more important stuff to do. This is assistant work, not head writer work.”
“I don’t mind,” he says as he takes half the stack and swiftly sorts the pages, clicking the staples into the corner as he makes the work look easy, “we all started out doing this stuff, I never thought it was too bad.”
“Well, uh, thanks,” you say as you start on your own pile, “it’s nice of you.”
“So, you mentioned before, that you write,” he says, “you working on anything?”
“I… that was like six months ago, you remember that?”
He looks at you from behind his glasses and smiles, hands working without a glance down, “of course, you were wearing that pink plaid dress I like so much.”
You laugh nervously and it catches in your throat. You see Clark every morning but hardly get a chance to chat. Usually, he takes his coffee and retreats to his office like all the other writers. You never thought you were more than a professional courtesy. The little details unsettle you as you know exactly the dress he means.
“You have a great memory,” you comment, “I can’t even remember what I had for breakfast today.”
“Sorry, yeah, I’m always in writer mode, mental notes,” he taps his temple and finishes his last staple, “so, what are you working on?”
“I took creative writing not journalism,” you say with a bashful shrug, “just a novella I’m hoping to self publish.”
“Oh, yeah? What’s it about?”
“Ah, you know, a girl in the city…” you trail off, “how’s Lois. I saw she got another promotion.”
“She’s… good,” he puts a large hand on the table and his other rests on his hip as he watches your hands, “funny how you know everything about everyone here and no one knows a thing about you, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, well, you know I’m the bottom rung of the ladder, people step on me to get to top,” you kid, “I think I’m just the only one who has nowhere to hide from the gossip.”
“I see…” he taps his fingers on the table, “you’re a cynic. I never would’ve thought but it comes with writing.”
“Realistic,” you say.
“Not much nuance between the two,” he pulls his hand from the table and stands at full height. He seems much bigger than you realise. “So, would you let me read it?”
“What?”
“Your book, it’s always good to get a second look,” he says, “you know, I know some publishers.”
You focus on the papers, “why would you do that? I mean, if it’s not good, I wouldn’t expect you to–”
“Sounds like a yes,” he insists.
“Well, not exactly,” you sputter, “I’m… not finished.”
“You ever get tired of doing everything yourself. I just wanna get you a foot in the door. I’d hate to see a promising young woman like yourselves pushing papers forever. As much as I don’t mind seeing that face.”
Again, his comment makes you squirm. You gather up the stapled papers into a single stack as you finish.
“Maybe when I’m done, if I ever get there,” you say as you scoop up the papers, “thanks for the help.”
“No problem,” he smiles as you sidle past him though he allows little space for you to pass, “anytime.”
You head for the door and stop to glance back. He hasn’t moved and watches you as he twists the gold ring on his finger pensively, “have a good night, Clark.”
“You too,” he returns, “I’ll see you tomorrow at the meeting.”
“Yep, two sugar no cream,” you recite his usual order.
He nods and his blue eyes devour you through his lenses. You quickly scurry away as his leer sends a tickle up your spine. It’s late, you must be imagining things.
🖊
The meeting sees your eyes drooping as you stand against the wall with the other assistants, writers seated around the table in leather chairs, as Lois went over the strategic plan for the coming fiscal. It’s all nonsense to you and you expect most of the journalists who spend more attention on their phones or yawning behind their hands.
When at last you’re dismissed, the restless rabble fills the space with voices and the squeaking of chairs. You wait for the rush to thin and go around the table to clear away those packets untouched by the writing staff and empty cups.
You glance over, Lois folds up her folder as she speaks in a whisper to Clark, his blue eyes gleaming behind his glasses as he listens. Neither of them look happy.
You focus on your task, used to acting invisible. She leaves, her heels tapping in departure, betraying some discontent or another. You put the last cup on the stack as you’re surprised by Clark. He holds the trash bin as he waits for you to dump the handful.
“Thanks,” you say, “you don’t have to help me with this.”
“Got nothing better to do,” he shrugs, “assignment got pulled.”
“Oh?” You round your lips. As a senior writer, that’s unusual. It’s usually the blurbs that get cut first. “I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry? Are you editor?” He kids, “you think my own wife would cut me some slack.”
“You’ll find a new story, you always do,” you smile.
He’s quiet as he trails you around the table and you add to the bin. His gaze is intent and makes you sweat. The table’s finally clear and you reach for the tray of mostly untouched pastries, “I’ll just leave these in the breakroom for the mice.”
“I found a story,” he says at last.
“Oh?”
“Yours,” he answers smoothly, “I told you, i got friends at an imprint.”
“Really, it’s not even close to done and you should be working on actual journalism,” you shy away as he follows you and holds the door for you.
“I got salary and nothing to do,” he assures you, “to be frank, I don’t know I’m gonna stick with it much longer. I might dip my toe into a bit of fiction myself. The real world is just too… much.”
“Really? But you do so much,” you say as you pass several desks and enter the break room, putting the pastries on the table.
“Did so much. Now I have my wife breathing down my neck at home and work,” he sighs and waves away his words, “but whatever, little problems.” He watches you as you dig your toe into the floor, trying to figure how to politely excuse yourself back to your desk. “You wore the dress.”
You look down, the pink plaid under a lilac cardigan. You remember the night before and his little comment. You almost forgot, or maybe subconsciously plucked it out from the closet.
“Oh, I… yeah,” you fold your hands nervously, “you reminded me I guess.”
“Well,” he rubs his neck, “I should let you go back to work. Maybe find something to do myself.”
“Uh, sure, um, see ya,” you drop your hands and his eyes follow your fingers as they twiddle against your skirt.
“Yeah, see ya,” he echoes in a low roll, “don’t work too hard.”
You give a last smile and flit away. You don’t look back as you leave the break room and head for your desk. Your chair shifts and you squirm as you try to get comfortable.
You’re uneasy, well, more so than usual. You click until your screen lights up and your eye is drawn as Clark emerges and strides along the row of assistant desks, ignoring the bodies behind the screens but sending you a two finger wave. You wiggle your fingers at him then duck down behind your computer.
Must just be looking for someone to talk to. The politics of the writers hardly harbors trust and by the sounds of it, Clark’s marriage is having a few bumps. You’re just the unlucky one who has to listen to him vent. Something about you, you figure, as it’s not the first time you’ve been in that position.
🖊
You take a croissant from the tray as you wait for the kettle to boil. Jimmy, a junior writer, and Kelly from marketing, sit with their mugs and cell phones in the corner. Their conversation is sparse but quiet.
“Golden boy doesn’t seem to be a shoo-in anymore,” Kelly says, not quietly enough, but who cares what an assistant hears.
“I mean, he’s still married into his seat,” Jimmy snorts, “just another bonus in my eyes.”
You tune them out as you pour steaming water over a bag of black tea. You take a small capsule of milk and your croissant and go back to your desk. You never pay attention to office gossip, it’s borne out of boredom and bitterness.
You pull apart the croissant and eat in tiny nibbles. Your email bings and you mute the PC. You get a few disturbed glances as the clack of keys and low chatter keep the din even.
You open the message. From: Clark K. Odd. It’s first time his names appeared in your inbox. You deal mostly with the general inquiries that flood in through the website. It’s marked with a red exclamation, high urgency.
‘Hi,
When you’re finished your lunch, I hope you have the time to drop in my office.
Thanks,
C.’
It seems overly familiar but you find many of the senior writers don’t like to waste words on Outlook. You hit reply and type in a formal acquiescence. It’s an unusual invitation but you never refuse a writer, let alone a head writer.
You dump half your tea, the caffeine adding to your anxiety. Why are you reading into everything? It might be just the opportunity you’ve been waiting for. What else were you doing here but looking for leg up?
You dust off the crumbs from your dress and wipe your hands, tossing the napkin in the wire basket beneath your desk. You stand and check the time. Your lunch went by too quickly.
Down the hallway of offices, you double check the door. You’re not used to making the journey without a tray of coffee. You feel a bit lost.
You knock and Clark calls for you to enter. He smiles as you do and you hover in the doorway.
“Come in,” he beckons you forward, “and close the door.”
“Alright,” you shut the door and step in only a little.
“Sit,” he says cheerily as he shuffles through some papers, “just… looking‐- ah! Here we go.”
You near and sit across from him. You cross your legs as you balance on the edge.
“I was telling you about the publisher I know. He’s having a party at his company. I was supposed to go with Lois but she’ll be out of town this weekend,” he fiddles with an envelope, “so I have a plus one available. Maybe you could make some new connections in the business.”
“Oh, this weekend?” You bat your lashes, “are you sure?”
“I’m not gonna ask Jimmy,” he scoffs, “so? You busy or something?”
“No, I guess… just surprised,” you shrug, “what kind of party is it?”
“You know, networking,” he says,“ they have these things every time they print a page but it’s great for getting your name out. And as an amateur, I’d say it’s a golden ticket.”
You mull over his subtle reminder of your standing, or lack thereof. He’s right, it isn’t an opportunity you’d have otherwise.
“Well, sure, I can go,” you stand, “but I should really get back to work. That meeting put me a bit behind.”
“Oh?” His cheek twitches, “well, I’m in a whole other boat. Don’t know what to do with myself.”
“I… sorry,” you utter awkwardly as you smooth your skirt which slightly rides up whenever you sit, “I’m sure you’ll figure something out. You’re brilliant.”
“Yeah, sure I will,” he says as he turns to the window, “better go get your work done. I’ll see you Saturday.”