დNonnieდ

“Thank you so much,” he murmurs, leaning in to press a chaste peck to your cheek. 

A chorus of “ew,” “aw,” and gasps rumble through the class. Ryland closes his eyes for a moment before turning around to face the excited middle schoolers. Before he could say anything, though, one of the girls points forcefully in your direction, “that’s your girlfriend?!” 

“No way Mr. Grace pulled her,” another joined in.

“There’s a Mrs. Grace?!”

“There really is hope for all of us,” a boy laughs. 

“Wait, she’s hot!” They were all talking over each other, a mix of compliments to you and barely concealed insults toward their teacher. 

“Hey!” Ryland starts, clinging to what was left of his dignity. You wave to the room, introducing yourself with a grin. You were absolutely going to make fun of him tonight, and he knew it too. He was bright red but he fixed the students with a serious look, “back to your work, everyone.”

They didn’t even pretend to look at their papers, too interested in this new side of their silly science teacher that they never got to see. Ryland turns back to you, stepping through the doorway and leading you away from the windows with a hand on your lower back. “This is all they’re going to talk about today,” he sighs. You stifle a laugh and point behind him.

The kids were lined up against the window, pressing their faces close to the glass to try to get a glimpse of you two. He doesn’t even turn around, “I owe you dinner for these,” he shakes the papers still in his hand. “You’re not cooking in my kitchen,” you giggle.

“Takeout it is,” he smiles, landing one more quick kiss to your lips before he steps backwards, steeling himself for the torment he was about to walk back into. You whisper your goodbyes and laugh to yourself when you hear his voice carry through the hallway, “don’t think I won’t lower your grades on these papers!” 

~

He beats you home that evening, an array of Chinese food already set up on the table when you slink through the door. Ryland is in the kitchen fighting with that one drawer that just doesn’t open right. Loose sweatpants sit low on his hips, a big difference from his work clothes you last saw him in. “Hey! How was your day?” He’s chipper, the day must not have been so bad. 

“Same old, I’m more interested in your day, Mr. Grace.” You step beside him, opening the drawer and kissing his cheek. He fishes out the chopsticks you always use and ushers you to the table, he pulls out your chair and can’t help but drop a kiss to the top of your head. “My day,” he starts with a sigh, “was exactly what you expect with a bunch of middle schoolers who just found out that I have a beautiful girlfriend.” 

You giggle softly, opening the boxes in front of you and assessing just how much food he ordered. “Come on, I want details! If anyone is going to have good jokes it’s your students.”

“First it was the lingo, they called me unc and said something about pulling a baddie,” he laughed, wiggling his eyebrows at you. “Then they said you were way out of my league, asked how I convinced you to give a nerd like me a chance.” You let out a belly laugh at that, knowing full well you were head over heels for him the first time you met. “Did you tell them that I’m a nerd too?”

“In so many words, but they wouldn’t have it. They decided that you’re the breadwinner of the relationship, something about being a CEO or owning a business,” he’s giggling now, too. “I told them you’re an engineer and Abby asked if you work for Lockheed Martin.” You gasped, choking out a laugh. “How does she know about them?”

“Her parents talk about a lot in front of her,” it’s said wistfully, like he wishes they would stop. “Then, they started using words I didn’t know. I wrote them down, hold on.” He grabs his phone, opening his notes app. “They said I’m ‘high-key a simp,’” a snort from you, “Tyler said, ‘Mr. Grace been hiding his rizz,’ which felt inappropiate coming out of a child’s mouth.” His turn to snort. 

“Oh! Jenny called me the Beaker to your Dr. Bunsen, that’s a crazy reference for a 13 year old!” That one bowled you over, you threw your head back with a loud laugh. “I still don’t know what this one means,” he holds his phone far from his face, pretending to struggle to read, “‘Mr. Grace lowkey ohio, but his girlfriend has goddess energy.’” He looks at you exasperatedly, “I’ve gotta ask their English teacher to translate all of this.” 

“I don’t mind ‘goddess energy,’” you wink at him. “The girls all agreed on that one, so I think it’s universally accepted,” he smiled softly at you, his tongue poking out to wet his lips. “My favorite one, though, was someone said we’re like fix-it Felix and that soldier lady Jane Lynch voiced in Wreck It Ralph.” 

“Stop! They did not say that!” Your cheeks hurt from laughing so much at this point. “They did! I think it was a disguised way to say that you’re out of my league again,” he’s so enamored with the way you’re laughing, he almost wishes he had more quips to read out. “I told them that one doesn’t work because Felix is shorter than the soldier, then they said I give short aura and that insecurity about being a ‘short king’ is a bad look. I’m six feet tall!” You’re struggling to catch your breath, you loved these kids so much and you’d only just met them. 

“That was a lot for one class period,” you wipe your eyes, food totally forgotten on the table. “Yeah, we didn’t get much work done,” he signs dramatically. 

He hesitates a little to tell you the next part, his ears burning when you notice the look on his face. “They- uh, they exclusively referred to you as Mrs. Grace, despite how many times I told them that we’re not married.” Your cheeks heat up at that, “that’s sweet of them.” The moment stretches, longing in his eyes that you recognize. He’s never brought marriage up before, but he often talks about spending the rest of your lives together. One thing about Ryland is that he’s a loverboy, it’s one of your favorite parts of him. You lay your hand on top of his, a gentle comfort after a long day of torment.

“Anyways, now that they know you exist, they’re going to ask to see you again. Maybe you could come in for career day? Tell them about the importance of paying attention when their teacher is talking,” he looks a little shy, it reminds you of how he looked when he first asked you out. 

“I’d love to do that, Ry, you just let me know when it is and I’ll make sure my schedule is clear.” Your smile is bright, excitement shining through at being included. “Yeah?” His expression is hopeful. “Yeah, I’ve gotta prove that they’re right, I am the breadwinner in this relationship,” you don’t even have time to laugh before he’s pulling you out of your chair and over his shoulder. He lands a hand against your thighs, ignoring your squeals. 

“You’re right, I’ve gotta earn my keep,” and he carries you all the way to the bedroom, “happy wife, happy life and all that.”

------------

“You’re late,” you chide, pretending to be focused on your notebook as you catch your breath after running up the stairs to beat him here.

“Thirty seconds,” Jimmy Olsen points out. “I don’t think Perry will write me up for it.”

“What could possibly be more important than the bustling world of reporting? First, you’re thirty seconds late, and then everyone is a minute and a half late and the fine citizens of Metropolis don’t find out about a life-altering event until it’s too late. Boom. The world as we know it is gone.”

“That’s a bit dramatic.”

You push your chair back, making an explosion motion with your hands. “You only say that because there’s still a world. Thanks to people like me and Clark who get here on time.”

“Don’t pull me into this,” Clark murmurs from his desk. He’s been getting enough grief from Lois the last week without dealing with whatever it is you and Jimmy are bantering about this week.

“What delayed your arrival anyway?” you wonder. “Blowout take longer than you thought?”

“Did you oversleep and not have time for yours?” Jimmy counters with a smile. “Because I’m sure Cat has a blow dryer if you want to sneak off to the bathroom and let me teach you how it’s done.”

“Ooh,” Lois whispers, falling into her seat beside Clark. “What have I missed?”

“Hair jokes. Jimmy was late.”

“It’s just now 8,” Lois argues.

“Mmhmm. Thirty seconds late leads to the end of the world.”

“Well, duh. It starts with thirty seconds.”

“See, Lois gets it,” you brag, crossing your arms smugly.

“Olsen!” Perry yells. “My office!” He sees you standing beside Jimmy and invites you to join him.

“Ah, he must be planning to teach you something,” Jimmy muses.

“You mean he’s going to ask me to teach you.”

“We need to lock them in a storage closet and make them kiss,” Lois decides when you’re out of earshot.

“That idea scares me,” Clark admits. “And I’m nearly invincible.”

In Perry’s office, you listen to his idea about going out into the field to chase down a lead on a story.

“And what would Jimmy be doing?” you question.

“Working the lead with you,” Perry says around his unlit cigar.

“I’m sorry,” you chuckle. “You want me and Jimmy to work together? If I do it myself, it won’t take as long.”

“And it won’t be as good,” Jimmy agrees sarcastically.

Perry narrows his eyes, looking between you. “You two do get along, right? This is just a really weird friendship?”

You sigh and rub your forehead. “Yes, sir. Unfortunately, I seem to have bad taste in accomplices.”

“You mean acquaintances?”

“I do not, sir.”

Perry laughs when your smile grows, shaking his head as he waves you away.

“So, do you want to walk or should we get a car?” you inquire.

“You decide,” Jimmy offers.

“You’re not scared I’ll make the wrong choice, leading to us being ninety seconds late? You know what happens then.”

“Shut up,” Jimmy requests, gently shoving you to the side. He keeps his hand up to pull you back in case you go too far from him.

“This is weird,” you mutter, lowering to look at a pallet of boxes bearing the name Wayne. “I see why Perry put his best on this.”

“You think we’re Perry’s best?” Jimmy checks, flipping through a stack of papers between glances over his shoulder.

“I meant me, but, sure.”

You smile at Jimmy, then stand quickly when you hear something click on the far side of the room. Jimmy looks at you to communicate that he heard it too. Keeping your steps light, you run to Jimmy’s side. Your hand wraps around his arm, but he shakes you off to interlace his fingers with yours. Using your joined hands to lead you, Jimmy moves into the shadows of an empty office.

“Jimmy,” you whisper.

“I know,” he replies softly. “We can’t leave the way we came in. There’s too much visibility.”

“Right. But we can’t just wait in here. What if they realize someone went through their reports and come looking?”

“I’m thinking of a plan,” Jimmy hisses.

“Well, I hate to burst your bubble, but you’re not Batman and we can’t wait for you to gain a couple hundred IQ points!”

Jimmy squeezes your hand and meets your eyes in the dark. “You’re scared,” he realizes.

“Of course I’m scared. We have to get out of here.”

Jimmy nods, then looks around the windowless office he led you into. The door is open, the natural light illuminating the hall spilling into the room.

“Jimmy,” you whisper. “I trust you, okay? Whatever you decide to do, I’m with you.”

“What would you do?” he questions. “If you were in here alone?”

“Call Superman.”

“You have a Superman signal?” Jimmy jokes.

Lifting your phone, you explain, “I have Lois’s number, who has a way to contact Superman. Although, after today, I might ask him to give me a watch with a homing beacon or something. My professors warned me against journalism in Gotham, but not about organized crime rings in downtown Metropolis.”

“We’ll circle back to the watch idea later. For now, we’ll keep Lois as plan B.”

“What’s plan A?”

“We wait until they walk past and run the other way.”

“Genius reasoning. Unmatched strategy,” you snap. Then, you inhale and nod. “Tell me when.”

Three minutes later, two broad shadows pass the door slowly, glancing halfheartedly inside before moving on. They’re talking to each other at a normal volume, though it’s a language you don’t recognize.

“Now,” Jimmy decides.

He pulls you to the door, pausing briefly to check that the men haven’t doubled back. Escaping through an unfamiliar part of the building, you emerge into a narrow alley. The door clicks closed behind you, and you glance at Jimmy before you run. With your hands joined, there’s an awkward angle between you as you try to keep your shoulder from hitting Jimmy or accidentally kicking the back of his ankle.

Jimmy hisses, a sharp inhale audible above your pounding footsteps on the pavement. You tighten your grip on his fingers, but he doesn’t speak. The alley ends abruptly, leading you to a sidewalk in downtown Metropolis. It’s busy, cars moving in both directions and at least two dozen people coming and going from the shops and restaurants lining the street. Jimmy slows, then pulls you to his side.

“Are you okay?” he checks.

You fall a step behind him, making the blood on his arm visible. Jimmy is walking on the outside of the sidewalk, between you and the cars on the street. Still, you can tell that he injured himself running through that alley.

“Jimmy,” you call. “Jimmy, stop.”

“We need more space between us and them,” he explains.

“Jimmy, you’re hurt,” you point out sharply. “Just… Look, my place isn’t far from here. Let me patch that up before someone realizes that we’ve clearly been running and you’re bleeding.”

Jimmy hesitates, slowing when you tug his arm. “Fine,” he decides. “But we need to get back to the Planet and look through the papers.”

“The papers?” you repeat.

Jimmy tugs his jacket away from his chest, revealing a stack of papers tucked against his shirt.

“You robbed the mafia?” you exclaim.

“Shh,” Jimmy warns, looking over his shoulder. “Of course not. Okay, maybe.”

“We are excellent reporters,” you muse. “Turn left here.”

“Sit,” you demand, pointing to your bathroom sink. “And take the jacket off.”

“Bossy,” Jimmy sighs even as he pushes himself up to sit on the vanity.

“What happened?” you ask again.

“There was a piece of wood leaning against the wall,” he says. “I guess maybe it had a nail or a splinter or something. Scraped my arm across it.”

You nod, then drag an alcohol wipe across his forearm and knuckles to clean the blood. “You should’ve been more careful,” you chide. “Not watching where you’re going isn’t excusable just because there were bad guys in the same building as us.”

“How is this my fault?”

“Stop talking,” you hiss. Pulling the wipe higher, you forego an apology before reaching the scrape. “You could’ve let go of my hand, could’ve slowed down when we got out. But no. You had to play Superman and get yourself hurt.”

Jimmy stops arguing when he sees the furrow between your brows, the obvious concern you have for him. You continue speaking as you reveal the small scrape that has already stopped bleeding. His already elevated blood pressure and the movement of running likely made it bleed more than it would have otherwise. Jimmy can’t focus on that or his ripped jacket or anything other than your focused eyes on his skin, your hands moving lightly against him, and your voice saying his name. Staring at you, Jimmy finds something more worthy of his attention than your usual banter. Which is odd, he realizes, because he loves nothing more than seeing you each morning and hearing what you’ve chosen to draw attention to today. This morning, it was his hair. Yesterday, the pictures on his desk.

Jimmy watches you, lifting his head to watch you walk out of the bathroom and to the kitchen to get him a glass of water for the ibuprofen you insisted he take. You leave his sight, and Jimmy is left staring at your bedroom. The door is half-closed, so he can’t see much, but the vase on your nightstand is unmistakable. Jimmy got you flowers your first day at the Daily Planet. He hadn’t even noticed when he ordered them that it came in a real vase and wasn’t just the bouquet. It’s place of honor in your bedroom is a mystery, though. Why did you keep it? he wonders. Does it mean something?

“Here you go,” you announce, passing him the medicine and the water.

“Why’d you keep the vase?” Jimmy asks. His usual flirty demeanor is always absent around you, but the question surprises him as much as you.

You move to stand between his legs to put a bandage on the scrape when he asks. Your fingers freeze against his skin. Glancing up at him through your lashes, you try to find an acceptable answer.

“It was nice,” you mutter, shrugging. “Why wouldn’t I have kept it?”

“So, no reason?” Jimmy checks. “It’s nothing.”

“Right. Let me finish.”

You open a bandage and spread it gently over the mark on his arm. It’s probably unnecessary, but it makes you feel better.

“I can admit that this is in some small — very small — way, my fault,” you hum as you step back. “So, can I buy dinner on the way back?”

“Yes,” Jimmy answers, still thinking about you and the vase and the fact that the first and last thing you see each day is a gift he got you. Though he engages in conversation with you as you prepare to leave, the only thing on his racing mind is continued variations of What does it mean?

The following morning, Jimmy gets to his desk three minutes early. Your belongings are already in your seat, but you’re nowhere to be seen.

Clark, however, is present in the bullpen and immediately notices something new about Jimmy. “Nice Band-Aid,” he chuckles.

Jimmy looks down at his arm; the bright pink Barbie printed on the bandage smiling. He’d make a sarcastic comment if he had any brain capacity after sitting awake all night thinking of you.

You return to your desk with Lois, matching coffee cups in your hands as you sit. Jimmy watches you, standing behind his seat with his bag clutched in his hands. There’s a familiar pink against the skin of your wrist, and Jimmy has to drag his eyes from your face to place it.

“What’s with the Band-Aid?” he asks, pointing to your bandaged hand.

You look at Lois, then wave for Jimmy to move closer. He drops his bag, kicks it under his desk, then sits and pushes his seat closer to yours. He leans into your space, eager to hear you speak again.

“I realized this morning that you’d probably get made fun of for that. Since it’s Barbie,” you explain softly. “It really was all I had, so I guess… Solidarity. They make fun of you, they make fun of me.”

Jimmy nods along with your answer, your voice making more of an impact than the actual words. You could be making noises like Charlie Brown’s parents and he’d be nodding all the same.

Jimmy Olsen is the playboy of the Daily Planet, some might remember as he stares at you with nothing to obscure the lovesickness in his gaze. Yet, when it comes to you, he has no tact, no game.

So, he waits until you finish speaking and blurts out, “Do you have feelings for me?”

You choke on nothing, your eyes widening as you reach for your coffee cup to have something to give your attention to that isn’t the heartbreaker beside you. After a long drink and an internal debate where you consider the cost of telling the truth, you set the cup aside and pick at the edges of your Barbie Band-Aid.

“You really want to know?” you question. Jimmy nods excitedly, his hair falling into his eyes. “Do I have feelings for you… Why else would I be rocking a Barbie bandage, Jimmy? Why else would I have gotten so upset that you were hurt protecting me? Why else would I remind you every day that your hair is too perfect and you-”

Jimmy raises a hand, his eyes bright and his smile wide as he interrupts, “I get it.” He feels as if he’s vibrating just from the joy of hearing your good news. He stumbles over his words twice before he manages to propose, “We should go out, then.”

Ending a call and only hearing the end of your conversation, Lois interjects, “Another lead?”

“Something like that,” you tell her.

Before Jimmy returns to his own desk, you catch his hand and kiss his wrist beneath his bandage. He smiles as he spreads the stolen papers across his desk, already planning to get you another vase for your home. Maybe one that will remind you of how far you’ve come with him.

An hour later, your phone buzzes with an incoming text. From Jimmy Olsen.

It hurts so bad :(

Then, a second message:

Kiss it better?

Rolling your eyes, you reply: Kiss it yourself, pretty boy

Jimmy inhales sharply at his desk before you regret the text.

You think I’m pretty?????????????

Yeah, you chose him. But despite the thumbs down you send him, you both know you’ll kiss it better later. You’d do anything for him.

Jimmy Olsen Taglist🏷️ @kmc1989 @ilocuras24 @alohastitch0626 @person-005