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It’s 9:10 on a Wednesday, and Clark’s not three sips into his caramel macchiato when a body situates itself on the edge of his desk.
“Hi, Jimmy,” Clark says, moving his coffee cup without looking up.
Jimmy leans in between him and his monitor.
“Hi, Clark,” he says. “Do I look different today?”
Clark scoots back from his desk. Jimmy grins. He looks the same as Tuesday Jimmy, complete with rumpled pink shirt and yellow bowtie. He waggles his eyebrows at Clark, smooths a hand through his hair.
“Um,” Clark says, leaning back in his chair. He takes a sip of his coffee. “No?”
Jimmy frowns, hand dropping. “Are you sure?” he asks. “I don’t look…I don’t know. Older? More mature?” He strikes a pose, strokes his smooth chin. “Like a natural-born leader?”
“New hair gel?” Clark guesses.
“No!” Jimmy exclaims. He pushes off Clark’s desk, rattling the five Batman action figures—one of them is very rare— Clark ’s collected from Batburger over the years. Jimmy spreads his arms wide. “You don’t see anything different about me?”
“Sorry,” Clark says with an apologetic shrug. “Do you want me to keep guessing?”
“I think you need a new prescription,” Jimmy says. He jabs his thumb at himself. “Because I, Jimmy Olsen, am now the overseer of another human.”
Clark laughs. “What?”
“It’s true,” Jimmy says, crossing his arms. “They made me a supervisor.”
“Over what?” Clark asks, still smiling.
“A human,” Jimmy says. “A real live high schooler human.”
Clark has to set his coffee down, because if he drinks it, he’s genuinely afraid he’ll spit it all over himself. “Are you…are you trying to tell me you got an intern?”
“Yep,” Jimmy announces gleefully. He rubs his hands together. “I’m going to give him the longest coffee order and when he comes back and it’s wrong I’ll chew him out in front of the whole board room like no! Double-shot! And he’ll running crying back to the cafe and I’ll say there’s mayonnaise on this sandwich and he will hate me with a burning, burning passion until he learns I’m just teaching him the hard knocks of life—”
“Not to interrupt,” Clark says, holding a hand up. “But. You don’t perhaps have Jen from HR’s number, do you?”
Jimmy’s face twists. “What? No. Why—ugh.” He rolls his eyes as Clark grins. “I’m just excited. I’m going to have so much fun with him. He’s in high school. I mean. Do you know how long I’ve waited for this? I’m finally someone’s supreme overlord.”
“You’re the supreme overlord of Friday bagels.”
“That’s not enough for me. I needed meat.”
“Don’t call the intern ‘meat’.”
“He’s meat,” Jimmy says. “Fresh meat, like I was, approximately fifteen hours ago. I’m not the new guy anymore.”
“You’re not the new guy,” Clark protests. “You’ve been at the Planet for two years.”
“And yet, I’m still picking up people’s lunch orders,” Jimmy says. “But not. Any. More.”
“Jim,” Clark says. “Do not terrorize your intern. Please treat your intern nicely.”
“He’s Bagel Boy now,” Jimmy hisses softly.
“Jimmy.”
“I’m just kidding. Kind of.” Jimmy rubs the side of his head. A piece sticks up at the back. “I mean. What else are you supposed to do with an intern?”
“Train…them?” Clark says. “I don’t know, what did you want to know when you were the Planet’s photojournalism intern?”
“That an office full of writers is the wild wild west,” Jimmy says. “You people just stare at space for twenty minutes than hash out two hundred words and stare again. It’s really creepy.”
Clark rolls his eyes and takes a sip from his coffee. “Try something actually about photojournalism.”
Jimmy huffs. “I don’t know. How to hold my camera right? But this kid is, like, ultra-gifted. Really impressive night shots.” He sighs. “He just moved from Bristol with his dad; they’re pretty well off, I think. Must have some connection to Bruce Wayne, because Daily Planet snapped the kid up immediately.”
The coffee spurts through Clark’s mouth and dribbles down his chin. He fumbles to catch it with his hand. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“About what? The shots?” Jimmy pulls out his phone. “He almost makes Gotham look pretty. Look—”
“No,” Clark says, shaking his head. “The— the other thing. About Wayne.”
“Wayne? You know.” Jimmy rubs his forefinger and thumb together. “Ditzy billionaire? Likes yachts and expensive things? Owner of the Daily Planet?”
“Ye-es,” Clark says, syllable breaking into two. “So your intern is…a Gothamite.”
“Kind of. He’s from Bristol, like I said.” Jimmy says. “But he takes really nice pictures of Gotham. Phenomenal cityscapes, look at this.” He shoves his phone under Clark’s nose. “He got one of the freaking Batman.”
“Did he now,” Clark says, voice tight. He coughs to cover it up. The photo really is good. It’s from the roof of some ornate building—the city hall?—and outside of the slant of moonlight is an angle of shadow, a sharp edge, and then the rounded curve of a boot. Clark can just make out the silhouette of the crouching Batman.
“He’s got a great sense for good lighting,” Jimmy says, taking his phone back with a frown. “I’m kind of jealous, actually. But!” He shakes himself, jumps up and down like he’s about to run a race. “Hard skills aren’t what make you a good intern.”
“Uh,” Clark argues. “Yeah, I think they are—”
“It’s your ability to juggle seventeen tasks, sixteen of which aren’t actually your job. It’s how good you are at not getting pee shy in the men’s restroom with your supervisor at the urinal next to you. It’s waiting until after hours to drag your tired body home to curl up on your front rug and cry.” Jimmy makes a fist and shakes it in the air. “That’s what it means to be an intern.”
“Jimmy,” Clark says, worried.
“Oohp,” Jimmy says, looking at his watch. He knocks on Clark’s desk. “I gotta go. He’s comin’ in at 9:30. Stay fresh, Clarkman.”
“Jimmy,” Clark repeats. “Jim. James Bartholomew Olsen.”
Jimmy turns. “Actually, I’m Mr. Olsen now?”
“No,” Clark says. He points at Jimmy the same way he talks down to some supervillains. “No. You’re going to promise me that you are going to be a nice human.”
“Why, of course,” Jimmy says, flattening his hand across his chest in mock affront. “Do you expect so little of me, Clark? Ooh, by the way.” He snaps his fingers. “What’dya want for lunch? Feel free to be as extravagant as you want. I’m not paying, but I want to see the kid squirm. I’m already thinking of a double-decker sandwich with toasted asiago bread and—” he starts walking away— “cut into two slices, with half-moon provolone, not the squares you imbecile! and how many olives do I want? Seven? Seven’s a good number…”
Clark tears his gaze away from him and stares at his now sleeping monitor. His gaze lowers to the Batman action figure in front of it.
“What do you have to do with this,” he asks it, but the action figure, true to form, reveals nothing.
“He got a what,” Lois says.
“An intern,” Clark says.
“Like,” Lois says. “A human one?”
“Yeah. A high schooler, he said.”
“They gave Jimmy,” Lois says slowly. “A live human child.”
Clark shrugs, hands open. “Apparently.”
“But he’s the new guy,” Lois says.
“He’s been here two years.”
“He’s—he’s—but he’s Jimmy,” she sputters. They’re in the breakroom, and she leans against the vending machine like it’s the only thing holding her up. “What time is it? I need a drink.” She makes grabby fingers. “Pockets flipped, Kent.”
Clark dutifully turns his pockets and deposits six quarters into her palm, the way he always does, every day, at 11:45. Lois swipes them and shoves them in the machine.
“You vowed on Monday to stop drinking Diet Coke,” Clark says.
“Was it in print?”
“No.”
“Did I sign a contract?”
“No.”
“Was a lawyer present? Are you a lawyer? Are you a lawyer now, Kent?”
“No.”
“Then shut up.”
Clark reaches into his other pocket and pulls out two dollar bills. “You want the Cheez-its, too?”
“No. I’m still on a diet.”
“But you always have Diet Coke and Cheez-its.”
Lois scowls, tears the money from his hands. “Yes. Yes I do.” The Coke thumps at the bottom of the machine, and she bends down to get it and points at Clark. “You are a sinister, sinister man.”
“Uh huh,” Clark says. “But. You really haven’t heard anything about the intern?”
“Heck no. If I knew they were giving one to Jimmy, believe me, I would have called somebody. Asshat on a shitrack, the machine won’t give up my Cheez-its.” Lois kicks it, groans, then grabs the machine with both hands and shakes it. “Give them up you coward.”
“Here,” Clark says, moving her aside. She steps out of the way and crosses her arms. Clark pats the machine gently, then rocks it back and forth until the Cheez-its finally fall through the chute. Lois snatches them like the machine will take them back and tears into them with the same ferocity as a hungry lioness.
“Why do you treat all inanimate objects like beloved cows?” she asks when she pauses to crack open the Diet Coke.
“Because the world would be a better place if we treated each other like we were all named Bessie,” Clark says.
They sit down at the breakroom table across from each other. Clark twists his left hand into his right, a nervous tic he picked up from Ma. “Jimmy told me the intern moved here from Gotham.”
“Well, good for him,” Lois says.
“Gotham,” Clark repeats, like she doesn’t understand. “And Jimmy said he must have a connection to Bruce Wayne. And that’s how he got the internship.”
Lois does raise her eyebrows at that. She sets her Coke down and folds her hands, leaning towards Clark. “So the kid probably comes from money. I’m not saying it’s fair, but things like this happen all the time, and if Jimmy’s excited for him, you can pretend to be, too.”
“That’s now what I’m saying,” Clark says quickly. “I just—I have this hunch that—”
“Hello, coworkers in crime,” Jimmy announces, entering the room like he’s the announcer at the Oscars. “How are we today, lady and gentlefarmer?”
“You’re the gentlefarmer,” Lois whispers to Clark. Clark waves her off. She lifts her voice to Jimmy. “Clark told me you got an intern. They don’t come microchipped, Jim. You can’t lose them.”
“Bah, I wouldn’t lose him,” Jimmy replies petulant, arms dropping. “I just gotta announce him. You didn’t let me announce him.”
Clark is a Very Good Boy ™ who does not use X-ray vision to see through Jimmy. He does lean so far in his chair to see past Jimmy that he almost falls to the floor, but that’s no one’s business.
“Hey,” Jimmy says, shifting back in his way just as Clark’s eyes snag onto a red sneaker. “No peeking.”
“Why, is he grotesque?” Lois asks.
“Lois,” Clark says.
“Lois,” Jimmy says.
“Hey, kid,” Lois asks, raising her voice. “Are you hideous?”
Clark hears the shuffling of feet. “Um,” a young voice starts. “I hope not?”
“Then he doesn’t need to be announced,” Lois says, nodding to Jimmy with her Coke can. “The only things that need to be announced are free coffee and really ugly people.”
“Lois,” Clark says.
“Lois,” Jimmy says.
“I mean, a little warning goes a long way, I’m just saying,” Lois says. She fans her hand out. “I’m still going to be a pleasant person, but I’m way better at it if I don’t have to cover my whole, oh wow didn’t know you were ugly! face.”
“This is why you didn’t get an intern,” Jimmy says. “I want you to meet the totally-not-ugly, totally-fantastic, Timmy Drake.”
He moves out of the way with a flourish, fingers fluttering in jazz hands.
The kid lifts a finger hesitantly. “I just go by Tim, actually?”
“Jimmy and Timmy,” Jimmy says, ignoring him. “We make a good team already, heh? Heh?”
The kid is young. He doesn’t look fifteen, but Clark’s not so good at estimating ages, and high schoolers all look like babies to him. Was he ever that small? Was anybody? The kid’s smaller than Jimmy. When did Jimmy get big?
Tim Drake smiles sheepishly under their gazes. His eyes cut to the large brown bag he’s holding. “Um. Jimmy sent me to pick up lunch.”
“Jim,” Clark sighs.
“What? He’s new to the city. I’m showing him all the best spots; I’m helping him,” Jimmy protests.
“He’s helping me,” Tim repeats dutifully. “And. Um. It’s nice. To learn about Metropolis. And the deli is only just down the street.” He opens the bag and holds out a sub to Jimmy. “Herb and cheese bread. Black forest ham. Swiss triangles. Extra green peppers. Extra banana peppers. Extra black olives.”
“Very good, Timmy,” Jimmy nods appraisingly.
“They didn’t have mega-size cookies?” Tim says, drawing another package out. “So I just got you three regular size ones?”
“Smart,” Jimmy says, accepting them.
Tim moves forward. “Ms. Lane?”
“Ew,” Lois says. “The only time I want to be called miss is when I’m Miss President.”
“Actually, I think the correct address is Madam President,” Clark supplies.
“Shut up, Kent. When I’m lady president I’ll call myself whatever I want.”
Tim pauses in digging through the bag, eyes shifting between Lois and Clark.
“I’m not bullying him,” Lois promises. “We’re flirting.”
“Lois,” Clark says.
“Lois,” Jimmy says.
“Ummm,” Tim says, drawing the sandwich slowly from the bag, like he’s not sure if Lois will bite his hand off. “Spicy Italian on flatbread. With. Extra extra jalapeños?”
“I want to taste hell,” Lois says reverently, nodding. She takes the sandwich and salutes Tim. “I can tell you’re going to be a good one, Timothy.”
“It’s. It’s really just Tim,” Tim says, and moves on to Clark. Clark gets up to meet him.
“Roasted turkey with American cheese on a pretzel bun,” Tim reports, extending the wrapped sandwich. “Easy on the dijon.”
His face is still round with youth. There’s an acne patch on his jaw. He’s neatly dressed in chinos and a henley, a green overshirt hanging off his shoulders. He’s familiar, somehow. Clark tries to think back to the last party Bruce dragged him to in Gotham. If Drakes are rich, it’s possible Clark might have met the father there?
“Thank you, Tim,” Clark says, receiving the sandwich. “It’s nice to meet you. If Jimmy hasn’t told you, I’m Clark.”
“I know,” Tim says. He smiles, then grins.
As a writer, Clark is intimately aware that these two things are not the same. A grin is teeth. A grin is a wink of the mouth, a sharp upturn of the lips. A grin is a scimitar of a smile.
Clark gets the pricklies up his neck. Like he’s being watched unaware, even though Tim Drake is looking right at him. Very intently.
“Enjoy, Mr. Kent,” Tim says. He tears his gaze away to sit down next to Jimmy at the breakroom table and produces a hot pastrami for himself.
Clark looks at the sandwich in his hand. He looks at Lois. He looks at Jimmy. He looks at Tim Drake eating a pickle.
“Actually, I just remembered I need to make a call,” Clark says, vaguely feeling like he’s having an out-of-body experience. He rises. “If you’ll excuse me.”
“He excuses himself from the breakroom,” Lois says in a stage-whisper. “Who does that?”
“Clark’s a weirdo,” Jimmy explains to Tim. “He’s from the Midwest, so there are some things you can make fun of him for, and other things you just got to try really, really hard to ignore. He can’t help where he was raised. And we’re all about a welcoming workplace, you know?”
Tim says something in reply, but Clark is speeding back towards his desk. He’s still holding his sandwich. He sets it down by his computer and goes to fish his phone from his pocket when something red and green catches his eye.
There is a new action figure on his desk.
There is a new action figure on his desk that definitely wasn’t there twenty minutes ago. Clark picks it up with a shaking hand. It’s a young hero in a suit with a cape and a belt just like Batman’s. He wears no cowl, only a painted-on domino. He’s grinning like a boy handing Clark a turkey and cheese sandwich.
The figure has been standing on an unmarked envelope. Clark sets the action figure down beside his limited edition Batman and peels off the red wax seal.
Inside is a note on thick fancy stationery.
This is Robin, it reads, in Bruce’s slanted cursive. Keep him safe. He’s one of mine.
Clark looks at the new action figure. Robin grins back.
“Son of a biscuit,” he curses, soft but with feeling.
When he returns to the breakroom after calming himself down by talking to himself like he is both the gentlefarmer and the Bessie, Tim and Jimmy are gone. Lois is scrolling through something on her phone. Clark sits down across from her.
“Lois,” he announces, setting the sides of his hands at the edge of the table. He swallows past a dry throat. “I am very scared of our new intern.”
“You’re terrified of escalators, Clark,” Lois says. She lifts her eyes from her phone. “I mean. Seriously, what do you want me to even say to that?”