#207

He’s hyperfocused now, or, locked in as you’d say. He separated pictures of just you, of just Cat, and the event. It’s like a reprieve for him, at this point, to stop and give himself a break from being a photojournalist and just be Jimmy Olsen during work events. With your pictures, there is no expectation of the front page or finding the balance between art and supporting an article. Just an interesting subject with interesting composition. 

Trying to impress you pushes him to want to take better pictures. (Of you, but he’s sure it’ll trickle down to his work at some point.)

Cat texts him, two minutes after she receives the OneDrive link to the folder of pictures. 

Cat Grant (Work)

Why are you sending me work at 9pm, Jimmy?

Jimmy Olsen (Work)

You’re welcome?? 

Cat Grant (Work)

I saw the news.

Did you and Simba get home okay?

Jimmy Olsen (Work)

Yeah. I’m a refugee at her place right now.

Do you know she has like, a thousand movies?

Cat Grant (Work)

You’re at her place right now?

Jimmy Olsen (Work)

Yes. It was storming and there are road closures on my street. 

Cat Grant (Work)

Holy Fuck.

Jimmy Olsen (Work)

???

Cat???

He gets no replies after that. Which, if he really thinks about it, is weird for Cat. But he doesn’t get a chance to because you walk out of your room a second later.

Your hair is damp, face free of make up, and you have changed into your pajamas: shorts, a camisole, with silk robe wrapped around your frame. Fuck. He summons all the willpower within himself to not openly ogle the way the hem of your robe brushes your thighs, or the way your shorts ride up just so—he really should have left earlier.

“Hey,” you say with a yawn, making your way to your open kitchen. “Sorry. Kinda a shitty host of me to fall asleep like that.”

“It’s fine,” he says, voice catching. Jimmy clears his throat, “I got everything I needed. How are you feeling?”

You finish a tall glass of water, leaning against your kitchen island. “Hungry. Have you had dinner?”

The question triggers a grumble from his stomach. “No. I didn’t realize how late it had gotten.”

“Do you have anything in mind?” You open your fridge, the soft warm glow illuminating your skin.

It’s like a dance, watching you in the kitchen, making him something as you recount how you can get a two bedroom, two bathroom apartment downtown for cheap. (The unit was torn by the dimensional rift and the previous tenant did not want it anymore). Jimmy doesn’t move from his position on one of the bar stools, doesn’t even dare to breathe sometimes, afraid that he’ll ruin whatever it is. 

Whatever it is. Fuck. You both kissed and he wants to talk about it as much as he doesn’t want to. 

He wants to keep the memory in a photograph, which in turn, he will keep in his pocket. He doesn’t want to forget the way you set his body on fire and then fell asleep like it didn’t affect you as much as it affected him. But he doesn’t want to face the reality, either, because it means confronting how raw and expansive his feelings for you are. 

It’s just a crush, he told Lois. Lust. He finds you hot and pretty and hot. But he’s approaching real feelings territory and he doesn’t like that. 

Correction. He doesn’t know what to do about that. About you. And he doesn’t like that.

So he waits for you to burst the bubble. Waits for you to open Schrödinger's box of feelings and put him out of his misery.

You don’t. You serve him shakshouka with toasted frozen pita instead. 

It may be because Jimmy rarely eats home cooked meals as is, but the sound he lets out of his mouth the moment he takes a bite is downright pornographic. “This might be the best thing I have ever put in my mouth.”

You snort, a small smirk tugs at your lips. “There are fifteen jokes running in my head right now.”

“No, seriously,” he says with his mouth half full. “Do you want a roommate? I’ll pay higher rent, wash the dishes, and do the laundry, anything, as long as you keep cooking f’me.”

“Tempting,” you grimaces, watching him shove yet another piece. 

His excitement dies down, and you tell him about what happened with Shawn, and Kyle, and Ryan over a plate of diced mangoes you had cut up for dessert. 

The rain has stopped, but you don’t ask him to leave so he doesn’t. He listens as you talk, voice low and slow, carrying into the night. There is a part of him that can’t help but scream in his head: that he can treat you better than any of those men. But Jimmy is not naive or stupid. He likes dating, likes going out and having fun without ever being tied down and he’s not ready to lose that yet.

So he doesn’t say anything.

You slip stories from your university days, and he reciprocates. He likes this, he decides, sharing laughs and teases with you over stupid friends and exes. 

“You must really like him,” Jimmy says the one thing he’s been thinking all day. “If he sends you into a spiral like this.”

You shake your head. “I told you, it’s more like an ego thing.”

“What does that mean?”

You don’t answer him right away. You sit there, on the opposite end of the kitchen island, with only one bar stool separating the both of you. You open your mouth to answer, but you let out a chuckle instead. 

“What?” Jimmy asks. 

“I can’t believe I’m gonna tell you this. You, of all people.”

Jimmy frowns, a little offended. “You don’t have to if you don’t want—”

“No, no, it’s just—” you take a sip of water. “I never admit this to anyone before. Not my friends, not even Cat.”

His hand grip the edge of his seat. “Okay.”

“I feel like I have all this love inside of me and I don’t know where to put it,” you confess, and Jimmy stops breathing. “And that’s like, super intense, but it’s true. And I love my friends, I love Cat and Lois, so much that I’d turn the world upside down for them, but I want to be known, and I want to know someone so well I’d recognize them and they’d recognize me in the dark.”

Jimmy doesn’t say anything. He can’t. What is he supposed to say to that? To the first real, vulnerable thing you have ever told him? It floors him, probably more than it should, but it’s like he’s seeing inside your heart and brain and body at the same time and it’s bright. 

“But it’s super hard, if you hadn’t noticed,” You let out a deprecating chuckle. “Cat says I’m too young for that. And maybe she’s right. Maybe I should make bad decisions and mistakes, but I don’t want to miss it, you know?”

Is that what he is now that you've hooked up? A bad decision? A mistake? 

“You won’t,” he says, too quickly. He clears his throat in an effort to put himself back together. “You’ll find someone.”

To his surprise, you laugh again. It’s for real this time, the way you laugh in his face like you do at the bullpen when he says something stupid. “Right. Thanks for the vote of confidence, Jimmy Olsen.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh come on, Jimmy, I see you with those models yesterday, and the interns, and the admins—”

“So? Kyle Fielder is actively trying to pursue you and your ex wrote a smash hit about you,” Jimmy points out, his smile mirroring your own. “And it’s not like I’m doing it on purpose!” 

It’s true, he doesn’t.

“You love the game, the attention,” you say then, eyes fluttering, staring right into his soul. “As much as you pretend to be annoyed, you like that half the girls on our floor have a crush on you. You like that Eve, the smart, hot woman that she is, wanted your attention.”

And he can’t deny it. He can’t. While it got annoying at work, or with Eve who kept pursuing him, he liked it. He doesn't want to hurt anyone's feelings, but truly, if he had wanted Eve to leave him alone, he'd say so instead of keeping her in a grey area. 

Jimmy is evil and an asshole. He's also human. 

He knows then that’s why you never gave him the time of day, even with his incessant flirting. He wants to show you a good time, wants to keep your attention for himself, wants you to look at him like he looks at you.

But you? You want to be mapped out like the land and the sea. Like constellations. 

A part of him wants to do that for you, wants to be that guy for you, but a bigger part of him thinks that he can’t possibly be that. He’s just Jimmy and you are—you. 

So he doesn’t bring up the kiss, not unless you do. But you don’t, so he goes to sleep anyway.

Cat Grant has been staring at you since you walked in, eyes moving between you and Jimmy. Lois would have too, if she isn’t busy grilling down Clark about his latest front page of Superman, yet again. 

You are preparing to throw away the flower bouquet Kyle Fielder sent, which is now browning around the edges. Nobody changes the water anyway, and you’d rather not have gross moldy water in the break room. 

“I feel like I barely see you today,” She says in lieu of a greeting. 

It's true, you have been avoiding the bullpen as much as you can. 

“I've been here,” You say instead. 

“So,” She drawls. You brace for impact. “You let Jimmy stay the night.”

“Nothing happened,” you sigh. “There was that metahuman. It was basically Metropolis’ first tropical storm.”

“You've never let anyone in your house before.”

Like you need a reminder. “Like I said—”

“Metahuman, road closure, sure,” She waves her hand dismissively. “But you still let him. Did you two hook up? Did you make him breakfast?”

“No,” You deny, lying to her face. You throw away the almost dead flowers in the trash can, emptying out the vase. “And yes, and also dinner.”

Cat hums, sipping her recently filled mug. She looks up at you through her lashes, waiting, searching, scrutinizing. 

“So why are you avoiding him, then?”

God, you hate working with journalists. 

That morning, you made breakfast for two. Some toast, some fruits, and you both split a caramel chia pudding that's been sitting in your fridge. Then, you told him to go ahead because Wednesday is your gym day. 

Which is true, but you didn't really have to go. But you did anyway, and you took the one and a half hour session to play the entirety of yesterday in your head. 

When you walk in, he's already there, leaning against the desk of Mallory, the new admin assistant who took him to lunch on Monday. He has his arms crossed, he looks relaxed, happy—like he is actually enjoying it instead of the usual slight apprehension. 

“I'm not.”

Her face changes. Her jaw drops slack, eyes widening in realization. “Something happened yesterday that you're not telling!”

“Nothing—”

“Oh, come on,” Cat pushes. “Did you kiss him? Did you fuck him?”

Your entire body flushes, heart beating rapidly in your ears. You don't want to let anyone know just yet. You want to keep that memory in a snow globe just for you. 

“Cat,” your voice is firm and sharp. A warning. Cat raises an eyebrow, curious but understanding. You soften. “I'm fine, really. Jimmy and I are fine. Colleagues. Co-workers. Everything is fine.”

Everything is not fine. 

Because that Wednesday is just one day out of four that Jimmy practically refuses to acknowledge your existence. 

That's a slight exaggeration but you get it. 

He doesn't tease you anymore, doesn't hang by the entrance of the bullpen to get the first crack at your pre-caffeine morning grumpiness. He doesn't make comments about your recent publication, doesn't make a cocky remark when you mention his front page picture. 

He doesn't send you the outtakes from Eve's perfume launch event. 

It bugs you, truly, but you will never admit it. Jimmy and you were never really friends, not in the way you and Cat are or he and Lois and Clark are. 

It isn't your space to ask why he is ignoring you while you can't stop replaying the kiss in your head. Can't stop replaying the way his hands set fire to your skin and your heart and how your blood seemed to be replaced by boiling hot water when he touches you. 

And you tried. 

One day, you tried to get that reaction by finally confirming his follow request on your Instagram. 

You had your phone open to the app, eyes trained on Jimmy like a sniper, ignoring the glare of the sun behind him. Once you clicked confirm, and chose to follow him back, you waited. 

He only spared a glance before going back to his computer. Huh.

“Are you feeling okay?” You finally asked him once, last Friday, when he didn't respond to your comment about his picture. 

“Fine,” He answered, clipped and dismissive, eyes not leaving his screen. 

You glanced down at the picture frame on his desk, one that used to feature him between two models. It’s a different one now. One that you knew was taken at Eve's event. 

“Are you sure?” You pressed, because if he wouldn't give you an answer then you'd be angry. 

You told him something you'd never tell anyone before and now he acted like nothing matters? You thought at least that you were making progress from daily annoyance to daily slightly less annoyance. Or to friends.

But you didn't tell him that. “You know, you never sent me the outtakes from Eve's launch.”

“Well, I'm not your personal photographer, am I?” 

Okay. Joke's over now. 

“You know what James,” You said with barely restrained anger. “This version of you? Such bullshit. We never should’ve hooked up if I had known it would turn you to whoever this is.”

That made him pause. You watched as he stilled, jaw working like he wanted to say something but nothing came out. You left him there.

But you were still curious, really, trying to find what makes Jimmy Olsen ticks and breaks. 

So the next day, you uploaded yet another Instagram dump. One of the pictures from the game, taken by him, was set as the cover. The rest were perfectly curated: pictures you took from Eve's perfume launch, breakfast you had with Cat, and another gym selfie, buried at the last slide. 

You tagged his account in the caption:

📸1-3 slides by @jimmyolsenpics 🫶

The notification of his like came in almost immediately, but his username disappeared when you check the likes list on the post. 

You tried, you really did, but after humiliating yourself twice, you stopped. 

“Did you hear?” Lois whispers next to you in the break room. You watch as she pours herself coffee and half a container of sugar. “Harold got fired.”

“The creepy IT intern?” You ask, taken aback. “What happened? I've been complaining for months and they went straight up firing him now?”

Cat shrugs. “Who cares? Fucking finally, right?”

“They find saved pictures of women in his cloud drive, which is logged into his work computer too,” Lois says. “It's not just you. There are other women too. Me, Cat, some girls in legal, Mallory.”

Mallory? 

“Fuck,” You breathe. “That's so fucked up.”

“At least you can feel a little safer now,” Cat says, departing with a pat on your shoulder. “We all do.”

Lois follows suit, and you stand there as they flock to Jimmy's and Clark's desks. Jimmy responds with a beaming smile. A smile that you miss now that it's never directed at you anymore. 

A mistake, indeed. 

“He's just on an emotional journey right now.”

You don't expect Clark Kent to ask you to a dinner date. But his eyes had locked on yours the moment you stepped out of the break room. He gave you no option but to let him walk you home, stopping at the diner across your building. 

“You sound like a white, culturally appropriating spiritual influencer on TikTok.”

Clark lets out a chuckle before shoving a fork full of pancakes into his mouth. 

You don't want to talk about Jimmy anymore. “It doesn't give him an excuse to be a dick, Clark.”

“I know,” He sighs. “I just wish I can make it all better for you.”

“Look, I really appreciate the effort, and I get it, he's your best friend.”

“I still don't understand him sometimes, too.”

“Sure, Clark,” You snort. “You got lucky with Lois. As emotionally constipated as she is, at least she knows what she wants.”

Red creeps to his neck, his cheeks. 

You smile up at him, wiping the maple syrup from your lips. “There's a lot to envy about you, Kent.”

A look crosses his face then. He ducks his head. “Trust me, you don't know the half of it.”

“What does that mean?”

He just smiles, soft and a little sad. After a beat, he says, “I'll fix it, Simba. Don't worry.”