Chapter Text
And suddenly Miles couldn’t stop laughing.
Mr. Timothy Rosenblume, only two seconds away from throwing his cigar into Miles’ face, exhaled in frustration and tried to explain.
“This isn’t the first offense, you know,” he gritted out, Miles wiping a stray tear from his eye as his hands began to tremble. From nerves or from the shock, he couldn’t be sure. The cherry on Rosenblume’s cigar reignited as he stuffed the tobacco back into his mouth and huffed indignantly.
In response, Miles shakily pulled a pack of cigs from the pocket of his leather jacket, his cackles dying for only a moment as he placed the cigarette in his mouth and set it ablaze. The furrowing of his employer’s brows made the effort of containing his snickers worth the while. Really, he was going to have to work on keeping his mouth shut too, but one could only work on so many projects at a time.
“I’ve talked to you about this time and time again, Upshur. Time and time again,” Rosenblume had a habit of repeating his statements when he was disappointed… So naturally, all Miles ever heard were repeats of sentences he had already heard, “But this… THIS,” the manila folder and the three dozen or so newspaper clippings and photographs he had no doubt stolen from Miles’ office space were flung onto his desk with an unsatisfying thud, “This is the final straw. The final fucking straw.”
Smoke swirled around the spacious office, the artificial light of Rosenblume’s computer making his face look ghostly in contrast to the indigo hues of dusk tickling the sky outside his window. With a grunt of acknowledgement, Miles pointedly looked down at his wristwatch, beginning to tap his foot on the floor when no response came from the desk in front of him.
They’d had this talk for years. Always going in circles about search warrants, unofficial sources, sketchy news articles found online, official government documents photocopied from the Leadville library. Always the same story, always the same ending.
Miles wasn’t really worried.
“We have protocols we need to follow when we publish freelance articles, protocols that keep this company protected from lawsuits and copyright scandals,” Miles hummed as he sucked on his cig and thought about what gift he was going to buy for Lisa’s birthday, “We also have internal rules, rules that make sure that every employee is living up to the standards we create for the Leadville Monthly.” Rosenblume plucked his cigar from his mouth and extinguished it in the handmade ashtray his mucus puking five-year-old had gifted him two years ago. With ash dusting his fingers, he quickly opened the manila envelope containing Miles’ current investigation and literally growled as hundreds of photos and notes flew across the table.
With a smile, Miles crossed his arms and spoke confidently, “Rules don’t make for good stories, Timothy.” Rosenblume scowled as he thumbed through the documents with the same air a parent would while trying to read their kid’s shitty biology essay. Miles tilted his head to the side as he stepped forward, a hand reaching for one of the better photos he had taken of the military grade trucks heading up to Mount Massive. “Think about all those pricks who work for the New York Post or for the San Francisco Times. They’re muckrakers and rule benders, all of them. Don’t believe me? How the Hell did Farris Grantforth get a picture of Ben Shapiro sucking face with that nameless dude outside of a 7/11. That was, what, two days before Shapiro held a conference discussing how all gay people deserved to be shot with a rhino tranquilizer?”
For added effect, Miles thumped his hand on the table, startling Rosenblume out of whatever trance he had been put into at the sight of the bloodied and tumored corpses Miles had found in the dump after he had tailed one of Murkoff’s transportation vans. “By breaking into the fucker’s house and discovering all the hookup locations Mr. Hypocrite had been sneaking off to when he thought his wife wasn’t looking! Come on Tim! The internet practically imploded after Grantforth dug around and found the old porn films of Shitpiro taking it up the ass!"
“Upshur-”
The cigarette was barely dangling from his lips at this point, Miles’ hazel eyes scanning his evidence as an increasingly manic energy resumed the shaking in his hands, arms, even his legs. “This is the next big story, Tim, I promise you. Listen, I get that Murkoff is a big scary security company with a big scary CEO that likes to throw his own employees into whatever mad science bullshit they’re building in that asylum- Don’t give me that look, they have to be doing something with all that fucking hydrogen peroxide and formaldehyde they’ve been slipping into the building for months-, but the risks are worth it, I know they are! The people need-”
“Upshur-”
“Have I ever let you down before, boss?” The signature puppy dog eyes, his Give-Me-My-Way-I’m-So-Fucking-Cute eyes as Ethan fondly (and sometimes sarcastically) called them, were thrown at Rosenblume, Miles using his hands to lean his full body weight against the desk, “What about the time I cracked the case about the fire at South Point and saved an innocent man from going to jail on arson charges? Orrrr... that time where some snitch in YOUR company was selling information to that shitstain news outlet the next town over and I managed to hack into his computer and export/delete all his files?” Technically, that part had been Waylon’s doing, Miles needling his complacent friend until Way finally agreed to do it under the pretense that Miles wouldn’t mention his name in his article. Speaking of Way… “And need I even mention the time where I literally saved four people from being murdered by listening to my gut and breaking into the house of a serial killer that lived on the same fucking street as a buddy of mine? That was some heroic shit rig-”
Rosenblume’s hand was curling around another picture, his golden wedding ring flashing in the light of the rapidly fading sun. Miles cringed as he watched a perfectly good photograph of a disgruntled Murkoff employee get ruined by his boss’s sausage fingers. “Upshur!” Spital flew into Miles’ face as Rosenblume roared, irritation appearing on both men’s faces as Miles, disgust clear on his face, wiped the spit from his cheek, “Goddamn it! Be quiet for once in your life!”
With a raised brow, Miles smoothed out his features and willed his body to stay still, one hand plucking his cigarette from his lips as he gave Rosenblume a thoughtful look. With veins popping from his forehead and a flush staining his face an alarming shade of red, Rosenblume looked three seconds away from reaching under his desk and shooting Miles in the head with the revolver he kept under there for safe keeping. Cocking his hip to the side, Miles grinned and, straightening so that he wasn’t cramping his back anymore, said teasingly, “You look a lot like J. Jonah Jameson when you get mad, boss.”
“You’re fired.”
“‘S funny. I heard you say that earlier.” Miles took another drag and blew it towards the open window to his left, the purpling sky reminding him that he still had the two and half hour drive to look forward to when his boss finally stopped being a jackass. With another impatient look at his wristwatch, Miles grunted in faux annoyance and asked with a sneer, “Is that all you wanted to tell me? You really had to keep me after work when you could’ve just called? What year do you think it is?” Another exhale, this one aimed at his boss’s face, “Some people actually have lives, you know.”
Rosenblume was busy stuffing Miles’ documents back into the folder, not caring if the notes that Miles had spent hours meticulously writing down got crinkled in his haste. Miles had half a mind to bite out a retort, but the hardness in Rosenblume’s glare stopped him cold.
They’d had this conversation before and technically Miles had already been fired three or four times over the 4 years he had worked for the Leadville Monthly. But nobody could rack in the money or the views like someone who had literally no self-preservation and had absolutely nothing to lose (except his car, but he’d rather die than let his Baby get scrapped for parts). And that someone, at least in Colorado, happened to be Miles "Pain In The Ass" Upshur.
They’d been around this block before. He’d get a day or two off and then he’d get a call from Lynn or maybe even from Rosenblume himself begging him to come back to work.
He wasn’t actually being fired. Of course he wasn’t.
The folder was thrown roughly at his chest, his cigarette dropping to the floor as Miles yelped and barely caught the envelope. “Clean out your desk,” Rosenblume spoke slowly, his teeth grinding together as Miles restrained the urge to give him the middle finger, “Pack up all your shit, burn your files and get the fuck out of my building. Your final paycheck will be sent to your apartment on Monday.” With a fresh cigar gently plucked from his tin, Rosenblume plopped it into his mouth as the room flickered with the orange shadows emitted from his lighter. By now, the sun had fully set. The smoke rippled from Rosenblume’s lips as he blew the wisps of air forcibly into Miles’ face.
Miles gagged on the smoke as his eyes watered, the shaking starting up again as he tried to think of an offense he might’ve committed while investigating the Murkoff Corporation that would lead to this latest termination. A grimace broke across his face as a list slowly started to form in his mind. “...was it because I referenced an event that might not actually have anything to do with the Mount Massive case?” Miles tried weakly, his bravado slipping as Rosenblume steepled his fingers and said nothing, “Or maybe it was because I accused Rudolf Wernicke of patient and staff endangerment in that article I wrote last week-”
This time, Miles was the one cut off, Rosenblume picking up one of the opened letters scattering his desk and flinging it once more at his ex-employee. Miles didn’t try to cover his language when the letter missed his chest and struck him right across his cheek bone, the sharp edge leaving a crescent shaped mark on his skin. “From a Mister Jeremy Blaire, head honcho of Murkoff's Administration at Mount Massive,” and suddenly, Miles’ termination was starting to make a whole lot of sense, “Just arrived this morning. Read it and don’t contact this establishment again.” A hand was pointed at the door, Rosenblume’s mouth pressed into a tight line, “Don’t contact me again, Upshur.”
Miles didn’t bother looking at the letter. Instead, his legs moved on their own accord and stomped him quickly out of Rosenblume’s office. A final FUCK YOU was delivered via a vulgar gesture once Miles got a grip on his folder and had a free hand once again.
Rosenblume was just being a hardass, trying to scare Miles into following the rules, trying to make sure that Miles didn’t step on the toes of a company that could blow this rinky-dink little news station off the face of the Earth with a snap of Wernicke’s fingers. This wasn’t final, this was just ridiculous. For all the hard work he had done, getting the truth and doing the dirty work when no one else had the balls to, the way that Miles was constantly treated by his boss and co-workers was fucking irritating. He should be getting a RAISE for wanting to take down Murkoff; Instead, he was getting a slap on the wrist and no wages for however long Rosenblume refused to call him this time.
Ridiculous. Now Miles was gonna be late to Lisa’s party and would probably be in a shitty mood when he got there and then was probably going to have to deal with Ethan’s bullshit when he got home way past midnight… all because his boss got spooked by some spineless Murkoff executive that didn’t have the guts to tell Miles to shut up in person.
Miles’ll give it three days, maybe a week at most.
Those fuckers were going to be begging for him to come back once they realized that they weren’t making as much money as they did with Miles’ investigations on the front page of their paper.
Dumping all his crap (folders, laptop, even his shitty coffee-stained mug) out of his desk and into a waterlogged box he found in the basement, Miles gained a bounce in his step and smug look across his lips, meeting the eyes of every employee that dared to give him a sympathetic look with a wink.
His steps became decidedly less jaunty as he got closer to his car and the realization of what had just happened sank into the pit of his stomach like a stone.