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I love that Jimmy Olsen is exactly the type of photographer Peter Parker pretends to be. Just bat-shit insane.
Whenever someone asks Peter how he took a picture he's like "Oh! I uh-, climmed a flagpole. Totally"
And very mortal, normal-human Jimmy is like "See, Clark, is not that weird"
I mean, look at this nutjob.
The world could be ending, lava on the streets and Jimmy would be out there photographing away. No powers, no sense of self preservation. Just khakis, a camera and a dream.
I like to imagine Peter meeting Jimmy and immediately being mortified about it.
Jimmy: āand so luckily I was able to take the picture before the building collapsed on me... Superman was super pissed at me but, photographer to photographer, it was totally worth it.
Peter: Right, noā See, this is actually my first time hearing how fucking insane that sounds. No wonder people at work look at me weird.
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Even better, the comments to this Twitter post were an absolute FIRESTORM of mostly dudes explaining to her that dials canāt only have 2 positions (not true) and that it wasnāt a very good piece (not true) that she was being disrespectful to her teacher (donāt care) and that it was a sign of her stupidity/rabid feminism/intellectual laziness/misandry/etc. that she couldnāt see any āmiddle ground.ā
It became, in its way, a performance piece. I was absolutely mesmerised, even as I wished I could cock-punch people through the internet.
āDials canāt have only 2 positionsā is also missing the point. Even if it doesnāt have only 2 positions, the point stands that getting less of/farther away from āraging feministā requires getting more of/closer to ācomplicit in my own dehumanization.ā You should always be at 0% having to be complicit in your own dehumanization.
The penthouse was a status symbol. The house Harvey grew up in was modest but solid. His father lamented the lack of studio space, and his mother grouched about the neighbor's houses blocking the sunlight while she worked. It was a decent house, if not always the best home for Harvey, and he appreciated that much about it. Still, once he got a taste of high-rise living, he couldn't stop thinking about it. A penthouse became the goal post, right before Senior Partner, right before Named Partner. He knew what he wanted and he was going to get there.
It was easier than heād expected, to be honest.
The first time Mike came over, really came in for more than a minor emotional breakdown directed at Harvey, he'd left a disposable coffee cup, and it offended him so much he took a picture and sent it to Mike.
"Strike one."
"I get two more then, right?"
Two and three were take out containers and Mike's hoodie. Not that he was counting. He was counting.
The hoodie clashed. It was worn bare in patches and the hems were frayed. A good wash might reduce the thing to a ball of string and a zipper. Harvey bought a new one. Same style, better quality. Okay, he bought three because faded navy blue should not match one's entire closet, and a cerulean made Mike's eyes pop. he hung them over their ancestor, for Mike to enjoy and complain about the next time he came over. There would be a next time.
Mike clashed with the place, even after they'd been dating for a minute and Harvey had invested a little bit in his image. It should have been offensive, Harvey understood the optics, but he couldn't help himself. Mike's untidy boyish charm and brilliant chaos made his showroom apartment dynamic again. Nothing made the skyline pop quite like Mike's silhouette next to Harvey's; the silence of living above the city instead of in it was replaced with Mike's tapping pencil eraser as he thought, his constant stream of chit chat and movie quotes, his sighs and chuckles and snores. it should have been annoying, cloying, irritating. It was the sound of companionship, of coexistence, of shared space and air and feelings.
After Mike moved in, slowly, almost accidentally, he shyly asked Harvey for more shades-- he intended to sleep past sunrise, and the patterns of traffic and city lights on timers were too engaging to ignore in the wee hours of the morning. Harvey teased him, but agreed, and lost his view. Lost waking up to the natural light and the immediate visual affirmation of his wealth and status.
He didn't mind one bit. The shadowy mornings felt cozy and irrationally warmer, and it reminded Harvey somewhere in the back of his mind of his childhood home, when it had still been a home.
He knew then that they wouldn't stay at the penthouse forever. Harvey himself didn't need to be above it all any more. He had found someone to make life like this and didn't need to embody the metaphor anymore. They talked rings, and bedroom preferences, neighborhoods and whether school districts should even be a part of the conversation. They talked over meals on the balcony at sunset, bittersweet and newly appreciated in its numbered days. They held hands and teased each other over the practicalities of needing an elevator to go home vs the pain of carrying groceries up any amount of stairs.
Harvey loved his penthouse. He'd promised to himself and achieved it. He'd made it exquisite, and then found Mike and they made it a home without even trying. He was ready to move on; as much as he loved the view, he'd found some better things to look at.
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