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"Huh. Look at this. Apparently, smoking leads to cancer." Betty ho-hums as she places down a slip of paper on Jameson's desk. It was something she set there every, single, day, and always found its way into the trash bin. Resting on her hip, and held in one arm is a bundle of papers, folders, and files. In the other, is a fresh cup of java, pitch as the same darkness that most assume is Jameson's soul.
"Your wife has purchased a new dress. I have the invoice ready to be overlooked. Your bank balance is all set and the deposits have been made. Robbie is working on the front page layout, the advertising boys still need to talk to you about their new layout, and the interview with Howard Stark almost sold out." Looking over her notes, the brunette with an up-do today, dressed in pale blue, passes over her ruby nails down a paper that's ontop of her stack. "Oh, and you have ten minutes before your meeting with Parker."
*
Jameson glances at the paper, and then slides it blindly off the desk and into the garbage without comment. He reaches out to take the coffee from Betty's hand, and draws it to his lips, taking a long first sip before he sets it down and replaces the lit cigar between his lips. Eyes lift to Betty as she rattles off the details of the day, the upcoming appointments and meetings. "Fine. Advertising team at 3:00. Let Robertson know he has until ten minutes before that to have the layout done." He pauses at the comment about Stark. "Sold out? Fantastic. If I could find more writers who can get those kinds of stories we'd be sitting pretty here. Too bad most of the time the garbage that passes over my desk is utter tripe," he says in his usual glib, curt voice. And then he realizes what that last point in her list was. "Parker. Why the hell would I-" and then it hits him that he -did- agree to a meeting with the wayward young photographer. "Fine. Parker in ten minutes. He had better have more than city corruption to bring me today. If it's not scandalous, terrifying, or cataclysmic, I'll fire him again so fast it'll make his head spin!"
*
As if summoned with those very words, the young Peter Parker reaches the top floor with the elevator doors sliding open and sounding that resonant /DING!/ in the hallway. He takes a deep breath before disembarking, frowning to himself and giving himself one of those internal monologue speeches about bravery. A few steps out, he looks around, then he steps up to the exterior secretary who is the first gatekeeper he has to pass through.
It's only a few moments as he smiles, "Hey, Lucy. It's me. Again." That smile is a bit wan, nervous, but at least it's returned. So perhaps not everybody remembers his crazy explosion. Or perhaps they didn't entirely disagree with it either. Whatever the case may be, however, he's shown into the Bull Pen of the Bugle and aimed towards Ms. Brant's desk in turn.
The sound of activity in the Bugle always gets to him. So as he walks Peter can't help but smile a little bit. He gives a small wave to people as he passes by now and again, but as he draws closer to the lion's den he clears his throat and tries to adopt a more serious and business-like manner.
Which, of course, immediately breaks when he sees Elizabeth. "Hi, Ms. Brant. Should… is it?" He points blankly in the direction of JJ's office.
*
"Alright, I'll call Robbie in just a sec. Then the advertising boys. The lunch truck should be here, shortly. Should I get you your usual, sir?" She questions, turning her wrist, awkwardly, to get a peek at her watch. Glancing toward the elevator, she smiles kindly enough to the pending Parker, even as the spider, now turned fly, heads toward a different sort of web.
Her lips part, about to correct/remind Jameson of his appointment promise, only for him to remember it himself. "He's here, now, sir. A bit ahead of schedule, doesn't that seem nice? You need more people that can kick off things /before/ the deadline arrives." She fluffs, giving him a small waggle of a finger. "Be nice." Leaning forward, she whispers toward the older man before turning and exiting office.
"Hey, Pete. Should…is what?" She inquires, her head tilting to the side as she allows that bundle of folds to 'slam' down on her desk. "If you're asking if it's time for your appointment, then yes. If you're asking if Mr. Jameson is ready to see you, also yes. Chin up, Parker, don't fold just yet. Remember, you're /good/ at what you do."
*
"Yes, the usual," Jameson responds to Betty's comment about lunch without much commitment, and starts to look over something in the pile of papers on his desk. "He must be trying to make a good impression for once," he mutters, eyes lifting to see Parker himself strolling through the bullpen like he owns the place. Or at least, that's how Jameson chooses to see it. "Fine. Send him in. Try not to let it affect your delicate sensibilities when he runs out of here in tears," he says dryly, leaning back in his chair, and taking a sip of his coffee. Dark, black, molten and unhealthy. Like the best stories.
*
"Thanks," Peter says to Ms. Brant, then ahems and steps out of the way as JJ gets things in order. It's only once he's got the okay that he opens the door and then closes it behind him once he enters the office. For a moment there are flashbacks to Midtown High and the principal's office… or rather perhaps what he imagined the principal's office to be like considering he never really got in that much trouble. But still.
He has his Sunday best on, as well as his backpack slung over his shoulder, but probably the main point of interest for JJ might be the manila folder he has in his hands, fairly thick with what most assuredly are photos on various topics. Chances are there are some Spider-Man ones in there too. But he takes a few steps further in, clears his throat, then tries to start.
"Umm, before anything Mr. Jameson… I just wanted to apologize for speaking to you that way. Before. And all."
*
Elizabeth stops Peter, if only for a moment. She straightens his collar, and if allowed, slips his bookbag off his shoulder. Setting it under her desk, she aids in trying to make the boy seem more mature, and interview ready. Then, with a thumbs-up for luck, she glances Jameson's way and points at him, wordlessly. Giving a wiggle to straighten down her dress, she digs into her desk's top most drawer and pulls out a few bills. Soon enough, she's walking away from her spot in the bullpen, and toward the elevator. There was lunch to get, after all.
*
"Save it, Parker," Jameson says tersely. "I agreed to see you because Betty said you had some golden shots for me, and that's all. Now, take a seat, cut the phoney-baloney apologies, and show me your stuff." The cup is set down with a thud on the wooden desk, and the cigar is replaced between his teeth. There might, in fact, be a smile there, but it's definitely not a friendly one. He's not going to let on that since Parker and Brock left the employ of the Bugle, there has been a marked decline in the quality of photos on the paper's front page. He doesn't want to tell the boy that he has more faith in whatever might be hiding in that manila folder than every photo that has come past his desk in the last few months. "And make it quick, I want to have you out of here before my lunch arrives."
*
The young man's eyes widen slightly, but his answer is mainly in the body language of a nod and a slight tilt of his head one way and then the other as if telling himself, 'about what I expected.' But there's still that faint air of wariness to him as he steps forth and drops down into that chair.
The manila folder is tossed onto the desk before JJJ and as it lands a small spread of photos become visible, fanned from the top corner. Upon perusal there will be the usual mix of Spider-Man action shots, as well as a large number from the Ice Giant invasion from a few weeks back. A few images of New Yorkers dealing with the recent tragedies, and presenting a strong front while still giving a sympathetic vibe. The framing is pretty well executed, and some of the images might almost be considered iconic for that time passed…
But the most recent ones might be of more remark to the publisher. A green horror of a figure astride a glider is leering at the camera in a clear rage as it hurls bombs towards a crowd. Then Parker adds his caption, "The Green Goblin's returned, haven't seen anything from any of the other newspapers about it. I thought you might want an angle on that."
*
Jameson leans forward, blowing a puff of smoke from between his lips, not caring particularly if Parker is directly in its path. He removes the cigar, and taps some ashes into the tray before putting it back. "That's it?" He looks up from the pictures to Peter's face, expecting to see some kind of proud look of self-indulgence there. "You come crawling back here, and all you've got is some touchy-feely crap photos of people dealing with disaster? Some shots of the Spider Menace we've seen a hundred times already? And some supposed 'super-villain' the police have already captured once already?" He laughs, and not like it's funny. "I was hoping for better, Parker," he says gruffly. But a hand comes out and taps the best of the Goblin photos. "Fine. Front page. Green Goblin Returns, Dozens Dead." He holds out his hands to frame the headline in the air, and then looks back at Peter. "I don't believe in second chances, Parker. Screw this up again, and I'll make sure you regret walking back through those doors," he barks at the young man, motioning broadly. "Leave the photos, and go get me more."
*
"But Spider-Man stopped…" Peter starts to say before he thinks better of it and then furrows his brow. A small nod is given as he bites his tongue, then gets to his feet. He takes a step back and around the chair, then says, "Alright. On it, Mr. Jameson." Parker turns and makes for the door quickly, pulling it open and then pausing for a moment. A glance is given towards Betty's empty desk, but then he looks back to the man who just… sorta gave him his job back.
"And Mr. Jameson," He gathers himself and then adds, "Thank you."
At that point, however, he's stepping out of the office and letting the door close. Hopefully he'll beat feet quickly enough to get outta there before any coming shouts burn his hide in retreat. Unless he's stopped he'll grab his bag from under Elizabeth's desk, and then hoof it on out of there.
*
Elizabeth giggles as she converses with a few others as she rejoins the chaos that is the Bugle. Three small bags are being carried by the girl, each brown paper, and holding something inside. Pausing by her desk, she eyes Parker, Jameson's office, and then back again. "Hey, hold it. Sheesh, you'd think you wanted this job back to do it for free." Another glance, she makes a quick count of the photos left behind and then digs into another drawner. "Ok, so that's about…four to six pictures." Scribbling, she rips a piece of paper from an accounting booklet, filing it away, before writing from a checkbook, and handing the slips of paper to Peter. "Welcome back, Parker."
Winking to the young man, she leaves a bag by the side of her desk and points down. "That's for you. On the house." Then, she turns and heads into Jameson's office, setting down a bag for him as well. "Charlie was out of rye, so you got white. Sorry, boss. Spoke to Robbie, he's ready for print. The boys in advertising are good to go with your meeting with them at three, as well." A pause, she seems to consider something, and for the first time in her life, at least as far as Jameson has known her, Brant seems pensive and nervous. "You're free up until that time, but, would you mind if I asked you about something, boss?"
*
"Thank me with pictures, Parker. Only thing I want to hear coming from your general vicinity is the clickity-click of your camera's shutters." He watches as Parker high-tails it out of there, somewhat satisfied with how that all went. Did he want Parker back? No. Did he want the pictures though? Absolutely. And then Betty comes in, with what might possibly the worst news of the day.
"Out of rye? What the hell kind of food truck runs out of rye at lunch? What's he running over there, a soup kitchen?" Jameson snorts, but takes the sandwich. Better than nothing. The cigar is left in the tray as he unwraps his lunch, and leans back in his chair to take the first bite. "Fine," he says absently in response to most of what Betty relays, until he notices that she's not the usual confident, somewhat brassy woman he's come to appreciate. "What's the problem? If it's one of the reporters' girl's, just get rid of her and replace her tomorrow. We don't need that kind of drama around here."
*
Elizabeth can't help but snicker at that. "No, no…it's not a girl. I'm not that grade-school, boss. You know that." She smirks, giving him a sly eye at the comment. Glancing at the office door, she then closes it behind herself and invites herself to take a seat before the man's desk. Few came in here with a strong backbone and guts to pull it off, but Brant might have just been one of them. Well, her and Robbie, that is. Her fingers grip at her own lunch back, however, curling it shut all the tighter before she speaks once more. "I'd like to try my hand at writing some articles for the Bugle, sir."
*
There's a beat. A moment of silence hangs in the air as Jameson stares at Betty, seated there in front of him. And then the silence is shattered. "HAHAHA!" He roars with laughter, throwing his head back and practically dropping his sandwich. Outside, no doubt, his outburst of jockularity makes waves throughout the bullpen. "FEMALE REPORTERS?!" He laughs heartily for several seconds, before realizing that she's not kidding. He stops immediately, levelling his eyes at Betty, all traces of humour gone from his expression. "Oh, you were serious." Jameson clears his throat, and reaches for the cigar again, putting the sandwich down on the desk. Serious talk required a cigar, not a sandwich. Can't take a man seriously when he's chowing down on a tuna on white. Rye, on the other hand, is a different story. "You want to write.. news articles?" There's confusion there, certainly. "What.. why? I always thought you had more to do than anyone else would be able to handle. And somehow you handle it. And you want ANOTHER job?" If she thinks she's giving up her current job to get a reporting job, well, that's a fantasy that will never be.
*
Elizabeth remains silent as the laughter starts, stoic and steady fast as she often always was. The bear behind his stoggie never bothered her none, after all, even if that mockery of noise was aimed at her directly. "Com'on, Boss. Don't think like that. Barbara Walters is on the news. She's on /TV/. I know I'm good with a pen and I know I can write up good stories if given the chance." She did, actually know that, even if Jameson might have read her work prior, this was something different. "You keep talking about all the hack dribble that passes by the desk. I just want to try something." She nods along with him, she did do her job, and did she do it well. "It's just something else to do while I'm here. Add it on to my duties and bump up my pay by 5%? You know I'm worth it, boss. Don't even try to tell me I'm not."
*
Jameson stares forward, chewing lightly on the end of his stogie, smoke seeping from the sides of his mouth. "Walters is on television because men watch television, and we'd rather spend an hour looking at a dame in a skirt than a man in a suit," he says, with a bit of a roll of his eyes. But she had a point. He read a lot of crap writing, especially lately. "You want a shot at writing something for the paper?" He raps on the desk with a fist, leaning forward. "How's this. Advice column. Our demographics are as much women as men these days, and all the other papers are writing some garbage column telling women how to handle their home life troubles. What to cook for a business dinner. How to dress to impress his boss. That kind of dribble." Jameson clears his throat. "So you want to write? Do that, but do it better than the Times." That trash, better for lining the bottoms of birdcages. "I'll give you five issues. If it reads well, maybe we try you out on something else. But you can put your name on it."
*
"Deal." Brant practically beams. Standing, she rests her hand out for a shake. Accepted, or not, she then looks at her lunch bag and turns, exiting the office to let the man eat in peace. She, too, starts eating, but as soon as she sits down, she's working with half a sandwich in one hand, and a pen in the other. Brant never seemed to 'stop' working.