Chapter Text
The air in the auditorium was heavy with the sticky humidity of a late summer, the kind that made shirt collars wilt and patience stretch thin. Ceiling fans turned lazily overhead, churning warm air in slow, futile circles. The scent of old varnish and paper clung to the walls, and somewhere near the podium, a projector hummed with the energy of an anxious insect.
Clark Kent adjusted his tie for the fifth time. The knot never seemed to sit right against his collar, always skewing beneath the touch of his hands. He smiled at a passing colleague—an uncertain, well-meaning expression—and tried to ignore the bead of sweat crawling down the back of his neck.
He’d been at Metropolitan Gotham Academy for a year now, just long enough to know which vending machines actually worked, which lecture halls smelled like chalk and which smelled like despair. Long enough to recognize the undercurrent of weariness that came with academia, but not long enough to have hardened against it. He was still too eager, too earnest, still the sort of man who believed a smile could smooth over awkward silences.
When the Dean launched into his welcome address, layered with empty buzzwords like research synergy and interdisciplinary collaboration, Clark clapped with the same polite enthusiasm everyone else feigned. He laughed at the right times, nodded through the jargon, accepted the lukewarm coffee that tasted faintly of burnt grounds.
And then, somewhere between pedagogical innovation and community engagement, Clark saw him.
Bruce Wayne stood near the back of the hall, a still point amid restless movement. His posture was immaculate, shoulders squared beneath the clean lines of a charcoal suit, but there was something withdrawn about him—a deliberate solitude, like the eye of a storm holding itself together through sheer will.
He wasn’t networking, wasn’t smiling through introductions. While others jostled for connections, Bruce occupied his own orbit, quietly apart. His gaze drifted, sharp but unfocused, his stillness violent against the restless shuffle of the crowd.
He looked like someone who’d rather be anywhere else.
And yet—he didn’t look lost. There was control in his stillness, composure too precise to be mistaken for discomfort. His presence seemed to carve the air around him into shape, drawing borders no one dared to cross.
Clark should not have noticed him so much. There were at least a dozen new hires, each as unfamiliar as the next. But his gaze kept circling back to Bruce, like a moth to the quietest flame in the room.
Bruce looked carved out of contradiction—precision tempered by weariness, intellect edged with quiet disdain. The fluorescent light caught the sharp lines of his suit, casting half of his face in shadow. He was magnetic in the way silence can be: the more it resists attention, the more it commands it.
Clark’s coffee had gone cold by the time the Dean announced the next item on the program: team-building icebreaker exercises.
He nearly groaned aloud.
Around him, chairs scraped against linoleum in a dissonant chorus. Faculty members shifted as they formed reluctant pairs, exchanging the kind of brittle laughter reserved for mandatory camaraderie.
Clark took a cautious sip of his coffee, grimaced at the bitterness, and set the cup down just as someone brushed past him. The contact was brief, unintentional—a hand grazing his sleeve, the faintest press of fabric against fabric—but it startled him all the same, a pulse of warmth cutting through the dull hum of the room. For a heartbeat, the noise faded, and all that remained was that fleeting point of contact, sharp as static, grounding as breath.
“Sorry,” came a low, even voice.
Clark turned, and there he was.
Up close, Bruce Wayne was taller than he’d looked from afar, though that wasn’t what struck Clark most. It was the quiet intensity; the faint scent of rain and graphite, the steady composure that didn’t falter under eye contact.
Clark smiled, automatic and bright. “Clark Kent. Literature department. I’m hoping this year I’ll finally convince freshmen that poetry isn’t some ancient form of punishment.”
A pause, as though Bruce weighed whether the introduction required a response. Then, simply: “Bruce Wayne. Engineering.”
The words landed with the weight of stone dropped into still water—measured, deliberate, unhurried. His handshake was firm but not warm, his gaze steady.
Clark tried to fill the silence. “Engineering, huh? I admire anyone who can look at numbers long enough without running for the hills. I get lost if there isn’t a metaphor attached.”
Bruce’s brow creased slightly, the faintest sign of life behind the stoicism. “Metaphors don’t hold bridges together.”
Clark grinned, unoffended. “Maybe not. But they make the lectures less painful.”
It wasn’t a laugh Bruce gave him, not quite. More a minute softening around the mouth, a faint, reluctant acknowledgment of humor. It was gone as quickly as it came.
They went through the motions of the exercise—questions about research areas, departmental trivia, the obligatory what inspired you to teach? Clark found himself talking too much, trying to bridge the quiet, but Bruce didn’t seem irritated by it. Just… distant. Listening without encouraging, his responses brief but never dismissive.
“So, why the academia?” Clark asked at one point, genuinely curious. “You don’t strike me as someone who’d be into teaching.”
Bruce hesitated. “It’s… a way to give back.”
He said it quietly, like it was an answer he’d rehearsed but never quite believed.
Before Clark could respond, the Dean called for everyone’s attention again, mercifully ending the activity. Papers rustled, chairs screeched back into place, and conversations fragmented into clusters.
Bruce gathered his things with the same efficiency he’d carried through the entire interaction. Clark lingered, pretending to check his schedule, hoping for… he wasn’t sure what. A goodbye? A parting quip?
Bruce only offered a small nod, polite but final. “Nice meeting you, Professor Kent.”
“Yeah,” Clark said, a touch too quickly. “You too, Professor Wayne.”
And then Bruce was gone, walking toward the exit with a gait that was all precision and restraint, as though even his movements obeyed an internal order.
Clark watched him leave, the sound of footsteps fading under the hum of the air conditioner. Something strange settled in his chest then—not longing, not yet. But a pull, faint and inescapable, like gravity quietly testing the limits of its reach.
Outside, the sun blazed white against the city skyline, swallowing the edges of buildings in a shimmer of heat. The air quivered from the pavement in waves, dizzying and relentless. Clark squinted against the glare and tugged at his tie, the fabric damp against his throat as he stepped out into the furnace of the afternoon.
He told himself it was nothing. Just mere curiosity, the kind you feel toward people who seem impossible to read.
And yet, as he crossed the courtyard, he caught himself smiling, thinking of dusky blue eyes that revealed nothing, and the faint, fleeting sound of a voice saying his name.
_________
📌 [August 29] Department Announcement
WELCOME BACK, ENGINEERING FACULTY!
The Academic Year begins anew! Please extend a warm (but not too warm) welcome to our Department’s newest professor, Prof. Bruce Wayne! He will be handling Mechanical Engineering and other related courses.
Prof. Wayne has reportedly requested “a quiet workspace, minimal distractions, and no group hugs.” Please respect his wishes and try not to frighten him with excessive cheerfulness within his first week.
Let’s make this year one of collaboration, collegiality, and fewer traumatic incidents involving microwaved fish in the faculty lounge.
— Prof. Tony Stark, Department Chair
_________
The faculty lounge at Metropolitan Gotham Academy carried the weary perfume of stale coffee and chalk dust, a mixture that clung to every surface like a second skin. Late sunlight filtered in through the blinds, layering long stripes across the battered table where Clark had set up camp. Papers lay scattered like fallen leaves: syllabi, printouts, red pens bleeding over margins. His tie was loose, his sleeves rolled up, and there was a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he stared into the swirl of his coffee.
It wasn’t the kind of smile he wore for students or colleagues. It was quieter. Private. Like he was thinking of something—or someone—he wasn’t ready to name.
Perry White found him like that, leaning against the doorframe, a familiar smirk already forming. “Well, well. That’s a dangerous look, Kent.”
Clark glanced up, startled out of his thoughts. “What look?”
“The one that says you’ve either solved the meaning of life,” Perry said, sauntering closer, “or you’re about to get yourself into trouble.” He dropped into the chair across from Clark with a grunt, the old wooden legs squealing in protest. “Knowing you, my money’s on the latter.”
Clark chuckled, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I’m not in trouble, Perry.”
“Oh, for sure,” Perry said, fishing a sugar packet from his coat and ripping it open with his teeth. “So… who’s the lucky girl?”
“I told you, it’s no one,” Clark’s laugh came a touch too quickly. “Just—there’s a new hire. Engineering department.”
Perry’s brow lifted in that knowing way of his. “You mean the one who looked like he regretted every life decision that brought him here?”
Clark froze halfway through stirring his cup. “I—what?”
“Dark hair. Darker expression. Sat through orientation like it was a hostage negotiation,” Perry went on. “Yeah, that one. You were staring at him like he was one of those tragic novels you make your freshmen read. What’s the one with all the doomed lovers and existential dread?”
“Perry.”
Perry grinned, delighted. “Don’t deny it. You had that look—the one that says you’re either planning to save him or write poetry about him. Maybe both.”
Clark sighed, trying to hide his smile behind his mug. “You’re imagining things.”
“Am I?” Perry leaned back, folding his arms. “I give it a week before you start bringing him coffee. Maybe two before you’re giving him lectures on optimism.”
Clark shook his head, but his ears had gone pink. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re transparent,” Perry said, pushing up from his chair. He collected his papers, tapping them neatly into a stack. “Just don’t get distracted, Kent. First week of term—students can smell sentimentality.”
When he left, the lounge grew quiet again, save for the hum of the vending machine and the whisper of wind against the blinds.
Clark sat there for a moment, staring at his reflection in the dark surface of his coffee. He told himself Perry was wrong—that he wasn’t smitten, just curious. The new hire had been… intriguing, sure. A little severe around the edges, the kind of man who seemed allergic to small talk but perfectly at home in silence.
Still, Clark found himself smiling again, unprompted.
He took another sip of his coffee, the warmth of it sinking through him, and thought, not for the first time that day, of the quiet figure he’d noticed during orientation. Bruce Wayne, seated apart from the chatter, posture precise, gaze unflinching. Clark remembered his steel-blue eyes that seemed to move like tides beneath still water, always observing, never adrift. He remembered the faint crease between his brows, as though the world had asked too much of him and he hadn’t yet decided whether to forgive it. And, for a rare tender moment, he remembered the ghost of a smile tugging at Bruce’s mouth—brief, reluctant, and gone before it could mean anything at all.
Clark exhaled, half-laughing to himself. “You’re in trouble, Kent,” he muttered.
And for once, he didn’t mind the thought.
_________
📌 [September 1] Department Announcement
OPEN FACULTY READINGS AND COFFEE EVENING
The Literature Department invites all faculty members (yes, even those who think poetry is an elaborate form of suffering) to our informal “Words & Brews” gathering this Friday, 6 PM, in the Humanities Courtyard.
Bring a short piece to read aloud—your own writing, a favorite passage, or that poem you secretly memorized in college and pretend you didn’t. Coffee, tea, and Clark’s tragically famous brownies will be provided (tragic because they’re emotionally moving and possibly underbaked).
Attendance is not mandatory, but let’s be honest: if you don’t show up, we’ll probably read about you instead.
– Prof. Perry White, Department Chair
_________
The late afternoon sun poured through the glass panels of the engineering wing, striking gold against concrete. Students moved like slow currents along the walkway, their chatter fading into the low hum of campus life beginning again. Bruce emerged through the double doors, tie rigid, blazer slung over one arm. He walked with that deliberate, measured stride that made people unconsciously move out of his way—not out of fear, exactly, but out of deference to something unreadable in his expression.
Diana Prince caught up to him before he reached the faculty parking lot. Her heels clicked softly against the pavement, the sound carrying in the late summer air. She didn’t call out; she simply matched his pace, her shadow slipping neatly into rhythm with his.
He considered Diana a good colleague, perhaps even a friend, in the quiet, deliberate way Bruce granted anyone a place in his life. She had been the sole exception in a world that, in Bruce’s opinion, talked too much and listened too little. He had never understood how she tolerated Political Science—so much of it seems built on performance, on carefully chosen phrasing and moral gymnastics—but he respected her intellect enough to overlook the fact that half her department seemed to enjoy hearing themselves speak more than breathing.
“Leaving already?” she asked, tone easy, conversational, though she could read the stiffness in his shoulders from ten paces away. “First day orientation can’t have been that bad.”
Bruce exhaled through his nose, not quite a sigh. “It was loud,” he said.
“Loud?” Diana echoed with a faint smile. “I mean, you survived the faculty orientation a few days ago, did you not? What happened there?”
He didn’t answer right away. His gaze flickered toward the horizon—the gleam of glass buildings, the soft haze of heat over the quad. It was the kind of pause that hinted at his restraint, as if each word had to pass through layers of silence before finding permission to exist.
“I met some new colleagues,” he said finally.
“Mm,” Diana murmured, tilting her head, studying him with amused suspicion. “Any of them managed to survive a full conversation with you?”
Bruce’s lips twitched into a smile, almost. “One,” he admitted, voice quieter this time.
Diana’s brows lifted. “One? That’s progress.”
“Don’t start,” he warned, but the edge in his tone was dulled by something she rarely heard from him—the faintest undercurrent of curiosity.
They passed beneath an archway where ivy curled up the stone columns, the filtered light painting their shadows across the path.
“So,” she said, as if the thought had just occurred to her. “Who is the lucky survivor?”
Bruce didn’t look at her. “Kent. Clark Kent. Teaches literature.”
“Ah,” Diana said, drawing out the word, her voice teasing yet thoughtful. “The professor with that sunshine smile. I saw him at registration. Seemed… very different from you.”
He huffed quietly. “That’s one way to put it.”
She glanced sideways at Bruce, catching the smallest flicker of something—curiosity, perhaps, or irritation at his own curiosity. “Different can be good, Bruce,” she said gently.
He didn’t respond. But as they crossed the lawn, a breeze stirred, ruffling his hair, carrying the faint laughter from somewhere near the English Department. For just a heartbeat, his gaze drifted in that direction; distracted, contemplative.
Diana caught it. She didn’t comment, though the corner of her mouth curved in quiet satisfaction.
“Well,” she said at last, letting her tone soften into something half-playful, half-kind. “I hope he survived more than just a conversation.”
Bruce’s mouth twitched again, but he said nothing.
And Diana, wise enough to leave the silence intact, simply smiled and walked beside him—content to let the silence say everything Bruce wouldn’t.
_________
📌 [September 5] Faculty Lounge Announcement
NOTICE: COFFEE MACHINE OUT OF ORDER
Please be advised that the coffee machine in the Faculty Lounge is currently malfunctioning. Until repairs are made, it may dispense coffee that tastes:
- burnt,
- metallic,
- or, as one report described, “like despair and dissertation”
A service technician has been contacted. In the meantime, please refrain from:
- Shaking the machine,
- Attempting to “recalibrate it manually” with tools from the Engineering lab, or
- Threatening it with tenure.
Thank you for your patience.
– Facilities Management
_________
By Friday afternoon, Barry Allen swore the faculty lounge had turned into a live broadcast of some serialized comedy. He’d only meant to stop by for coffee—one quick refill before his next class—but somehow ended up in the middle of a storm of hushed voices and scandalized whispers. The air buzzed with gossip thick enough to taste, and Barry, mug in hand, had the uneasy sense that he’d just walked into the climax of an episode he hadn’t been watching.
So he leaned against the counter, stirring too much sugar into his mug. Across the room, a group of junior lecturers clustered near the snack table, talking in the tone people usually reserved for faculty scandals or leaked group chat screenshots.
“The new Engineering professor is terrifying,” one whispered, wide-eyed. “But he’s… kind of handsome?”
“Handsome in a ‘has definitely buried a body’ type of way,” said another.
Barry nearly choked on his coffee. “What—what does that even mean?”
Hal Jordan, sprawled on the couch with his usual lazy confidence, didn’t even look up from his phone. “Means they’ve met Bruce Wayne,” he said dryly.
Barry blinked. “Wait. That’s the new guy everyone’s talking about?”
Hal finally looked up, smirking. “Yeah. The brooding one from Engineering. Teaches at seven a.m. by choice. Probably wakes up at four to glare at the sunrise.”
“That’s psychotic,” Barry said. “Who does that?”
“Bruce Wayne does that.” Hal sipped his cold coffee. “And he’s probably grading papers at ungodly hours, surrounded by half-empty energy drink cans.”
Barry grinned, unable to help himself. “Okay, but you have to admit—he’s got that whole ‘mysterious aura’ thing. Like if you talk to him too long, you either end up inspired… or missing.”
Hal tilted his head, pretending to think. “Maybe both.”
Before Barry could respond, a cluster of the Literature department walked in, trailing the warm smell of glazed donuts. At their head was Clark Kent—tie slightly askew, smile blinding enough to melt cynicism at ten paces.
“Good afternoon, everyone!” Clark said, setting a pink pastry box on the counter. “Brought some extras from the bakery down the street.”
Barry watched as the tension in the room immediately dissolved. Even the gossipers straightened up, suddenly looking saintly in Clark's presence.
“Meanwhile,” Hal muttered under his breath, leaning toward Barry, “this Literature guy’s too nice for his own good.”
Barry tilted his head, amused. “Too nice?”
“Always smiling, always bringing donuts.” Hal gestured with his mug. “He’s like the emotional support professor. Makes the rest of us look bad.”
Clark glanced over, cheerful as ever. “You two talking about donuts or lesson plans?”
“Uh, donuts,” Barry said quickly. “Definitely donuts.”
“Good,” Clark said, offering them each one. “You both look like you skipped lunch again.”
As Clark left to distribute pastries like some benevolent academic Santa, Barry watched him go, then turned to Hal.
“So let me get this straight,” he said. “One guy’s a brooding psycho before sunrise, this one’s a walking Hallmark card?”
“Yeah,” Hal said, leaning back with a grin. “Exactly. Opposite ends of the faculty spectrum.”
Barry nodded thoughtfully. “You think they’ve met yet?”
Hal’s grin widened. “Oh, they’ve met. Saw them talking outside the faculty office yesterday. It looked… tense.”
“Tense how?” Barry asked, eyes lighting up.
Hal paused to think. “Like a rainbow flirting with a thunderstorm.”
Barry choked on his coffee. “You’re kidding.”
“Wish I was,” Hal said. “Place your bets now, Allen. Either they end up co-authoring a paper or punching each other in the parking lot on a Tuesday.”
Barry grinned, shaking his head. “Man, this place. I swear, it’s not even a university. It’s a slow-burn sitcom waiting to happen.”
Hal raised his mug in a mock toast. “To academia, where the gossip’s fresh and the coffee’s not.”
"Honestly," Barry clinked his mug against Hal’s. “I’m betting on them spending half the semester trying not to punch each other in the face.”