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Clark Kent had never considered himself particularly unlucky.
Statistically speaking, he was probably a few standard deviations toward bad luck, sure. There had been incidents (plural) involving falling vending machines, collapsing bleachers, and that one memorable evening he'd gotten locked inside the campus greenhouse overnight with nothing but a dying phone and a particularly judgmental succulent for company.
But Clark had always figured that, cosmically, he was more of a harmless glitch in the matrix than a cautionary tale. The universe didn't hate him. It just occasionally nudged him into embarrassing situations to see what would happen.
Still, nothing in his twenty years of existence had prepared him for the moment he got stuck with Bruce Wayne in the revolving door at the university’s main building at precisely 9:03 a.m., two weeks before finals.
Yes. That Bruce Wayne. Gotham’s favorite prodigal son. The university’s most reluctant golden boy, though honestly, he couldn't be considered a golden boy if he were that much of a cryptid. Clark had started a mental tally of Bruce Wayne sightings like he was tracking Bigfoot, except Bigfoot was probably more social and definitely less attractive.
Clark had seen him exactly once before, in Introduction to Philosophy with Professor Crane. Bruce had spent the entire semester sitting three rows behind Clark, contributing exactly one comment per class which was usually something so devastatingly insightful that it made Professor Crane pause mid-lecture and stare into the middle distance like he was reconsidering his entire worldview.
Clark had spent most of those classes trying not to turn around and gawk at the way Bruce's jaw moved when he talked, or how his fingers drummed against his laptop in perfectly calculated rhythms that probably corresponded to some complex algorithm Clark would never understand. The man looked like he'd stepped out of a film noir, even at nine in the morning, with the kind of bone structure that made Clark wonder if there was a factory somewhere that just manufactured impossibly attractive rich kids.
Not that Clark was paying attention or anything. He was a journalism major. Observation was just part of his skill set.
The revolving door incident started innocuously enough. Clark had been juggling his laptop bag, a coffee that was more sugar and wishful thinking than actual caffeine, and approximately seven different textbooks he definitely should have returned to the library three weeks ago. Bruce had been approaching from the other side, looking like he'd just walked off the cover of Gotham Gazette's “Brooding Intellectuals” issue.
They'd entered the revolving door at exactly the same moment.
The door groaned to a halt with them trapped in adjacent compartments, close enough that Clark could count Bruce's unfairly long eyelashes if he wanted to (which he absolutely did not want to do, thank you very much). The silence was deafening, broken only by the mechanical whirring of the door's failed attempts to resume rotation and the distant sound of Clark's university reputation dying.
There were at least three other students already filming the ordeal on their phones, because, of course, there were. Nothing said “viral campus content” like watching two students trapped in a revolving door.
“So... bad luck today, huh?” Clark tried, adjusting his glasses and immediately regretting every life choice that had led him to this moment.
Bruce Wayne turned to look at him, and Clark felt his brain perform what could only be described as a complete system shutdown. Up close, Bruce's eyes were an impossible shade of blue-gray, like storm clouds over the ocean, and Clark had the sudden, irrational thought that he could probably write terrible poetry about them.
“Statistically,” Bruce said, his voice low and measured, “revolving door malfunctions occur in less than 0.02% of all door operations.”
“So we're special,” Clark said weakly.
“Lucky us.”
It took fifteen minutes for maintenance to rescue them, during which Clark learned that Bruce Wayne smelled like expensive cologne and something Clark couldn't identify but wanted to bottle and keep forever. He also learned that Bruce had apparently memorized the architectural specifications of the building they were trapped in, which he recited in precise detail when the silence became too overwhelming.
By the time they were freed, Clark was reasonably certain this would rank as his most embarrassing moment of his entire college career. He mumbled something that might have been “thank you” or “sorry” or possibly just a series of vowel sounds, and fled toward his Ethics in Media lecture.
And that, Clark thought grimly as he slumped into his usual back-row seat, was that.
Except it wasn’t.
Day 1
The next day, Clark showed up at Study Room 237B at exactly 7 a.m., armed with enough caffeine to power a small aircraft and the steely determination to both survive finals and finish his exposé for the campus paper. He'd booked the room fair and square through the library's online system, complete with a confirmation email.
So when he pushed open the door to find Bruce Wayne sitting at the small table, laptop open and surrounded by enough computer science textbooks to build a small fortress, Clark's first thought was that he was hallucinating from an acidic overdose.
His second thought was that Bruce looked different in the soft fluorescent lighting of the study room. His hair was slightly mussed, like he'd been running his hands through it, and there was a half-empty coffee cup next to his elbow that suggested he'd been there for a while. He looked... approachable.
Clark stood in the doorway, blinking like an owl.
“Hello,” he started, then stopped. Then started again. “I, um. I booked this room.”
Bruce looked up from his laptop, and Clark caught a flash of something—surprise? recognition?—before his expression settled back into its usual careful neutrality.
“So did I,” Bruce said, and his voice was fuller than Clark remembered from philosophy class. Maybe because it was just the two of them in the same room, no Professor Crane droning on about the meaninglessness of existence. “Seven to one.”
They stared at each other across the small space, and Clark felt that same weird sensation from the revolving door incident.
“Should we report this to the front desk?” Clark ventured.
“Marie from the front desk told me yesterday that the system's been double-booking everyone since the last software update,” Bruce said. “She'll probably tell us to figure it out ourselves.”
What followed was possibly the most painfully polite standoff in the history of academia. Bruce insisted that Clark could have the room. Clark insisted Bruce could have it. Bruce mentioned he could work anywhere, and he had three backup locations already scouted. Clark said he didn't mind sharing, really, he worked better with ambient noise anyway. Bruce said sharing was fine if Clark didn't mind the sound of typing. Clark said he actually found typing sounds soothing.
“That’s efficient,” Bruce said finally, nodding once in that decisive way that suggested the matter was settled.
So they shared.
For six hours.
Clark discovered several things about Bruce Wayne during those six hours:
1. He typed exactly like he talked, with the occasional pause that suggested he was choosing his words very carefully.
2. He drank his coffee black.
3. He had a habit of drumming his fingers against the table when he was thinking, always the same pattern: thumb, index, middle, ring, pinky, and repeat.
4. He was apparently fluent in at least three programming languages.
5. He looked at Clark sometimes like he was trying to solve a particularly interesting equation.
Around hour four, Clark's highlighter died with a pathetic squeak.
“Damn,” he muttered, shaking it hopefully.
Without looking up from his screen, Bruce slid a yellow highlighter across the table. It was the exact same brand Clark had been using.
“Thanks,” Clark said, probably too softly.
Bruce just nodded and went back to typing.
An hour later, Bruce looked up suddenly and fixed Clark with that intense, focused stare that made Clark feel like the most interesting person in the world.
“You're investigating corruption in campus administration,” Bruce declared. It wasn't a question.
Clark blinked. “...Yes?”
“Interesting approach. You're following the financial discrepancies in the athletics department budget.”
“How did you—“ Clark stared at him. “How did you know that?”
“You mutter when you write,” Bruce said, turning back to his laptop. “Also, you have your research notes open, and I may have accidentally glanced over when you were highlighting.”
“I do not mutter.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow and returned to his screen. Thirty seconds later, Clark caught himself muttering about stadium renovation costs under his breath and clamped his mouth shut.
Day 2
Clark arrived to find Bruce already set up in what was apparently becoming their study room. His laptop fortress had grown overnight, and there was now a complex flowchart drawn on the whiteboard that looked like it could chart the course of human civilization.
“Do you eat actual food?” Clark asked, unwrapping what appeared to be his fourth granola bar of the morning.
Bruce looked up from his laptop setup, which had somehow multiplied to include what appeared to be two monitors and a tablet. “I eat.”
“When?”
“When necessary.”
Clark waited for elaboration. None came.
“That's not an answer.”
“It's an accurate answer.”
Clark stared at him. Bruce stared back, completely unrepentant. This was becoming a pattern.
“Right,” Clark said finally. “Well, I'm getting lunch. You want anything?”
“I’m fine.”
Clark left, muttering about impossible cryptid computer science majors who probably photosynthesized. When he returned twenty minutes later with two sandwiches from the campus deli, Bruce was exactly where he'd left him, but the flowchart on the whiteboard had grown to include what appeared to be a decision tree for optimizing study break intervals.
“Sandwich,” Clark said, placing one in front of Bruce with the kind of firm decisiveness usually reserved for hostage negotiations.
Bruce looked at the sandwich like it might explode. “I didn't ask for this.”
“No, but you haven't eaten anything in the five hours I've been watching you, and if you pass out from malnutrition, I'll have to explain to campus security why there's an unconscious Wayne heir in our study room.”
“Our study room?” Bruce asked, and there was something almost amused in his voice.
Clark paused, sandwich halfway to his mouth. “I mean. The study room. That we're both using. Temporarily. Due to a booking error.”
Bruce's expression was unreadable, but he picked up the sandwich. Clark tried not to feel victorious about this small win against Bruce Wayne's apparent death wish.
“Turkey and swiss,” Clark said, settling back into his chair. “Safe bet.”
“How did you know I wasn't a vegetarian?”
“Lucky guess. Also, you wear expensive leather and what I'm pretty sure is wool, so I figured you weren't too concerned about animal products.”
“Uh-huh.” But Bruce was almost smiling now, and Clark decided that was a huge win after all.
Day 5
By Thursday, the study room had developed its own ecosystem. Clark had claimed the chair facing the window, Bruce had established dominance over the whiteboard, and they'd developed an unspoken system for sharing stationary.
The heating system, however, had decided to stage a revolt.
Clark noticed Bruce shivering before Bruce seemed to notice it himself. It was subtle. Just a slight tension in his shoulders and the way he kept flexing his fingers, but Clark had become something of an expert in Bruce Wayne body language over the past few days.
“Are you cold?” Clark asked.
Bruce looked up from his laptop, and Clark could see that his ears were slightly pink from the chill. “I’m fine.”
“You’re shivering.”
“I don’t shiver.”
Clark stood up and started digging through his backpack. “Here,” he said, pulling out one of his extra sweatshirts. It was a soft gray one from his high school newspaper that he'd grabbed that morning without thinking.
Bruce stared at the offered sweatshirt like it was written in a foreign language. “I don't need—“
“Bruce Wayne.” Clark used what his Ma called his "no-nonsense" voice, the one he usually reserved for convincing his editor to let him pursue particularly ambitious story leads. “Take the sweatshirt.”
Bruce took it.
Clark tried not to stare as Bruce pulled it on over his button-down shirt. The sweatshirt was too big on Bruce's lean frame, and the gray color brought out his eyes in a way that made Clark's chest do something complicated and probably inadvisable.
“Better?” Clark asked.
Bruce nodded, and Clark could swear his ears got pinker, though that might have been the warm fabric.
“Thanks,” Bruce said quietly.
“Don’t mention it.”
Except people did mention it. Extensively.
Day 6
The rumors started on Friday.
Clark first noticed something was wrong when Lois Lane cornered him outside the journalism building with the expression of a reporter who had just smelled blood in the water and was prepared to circle her prey until it surrendered all its secrets.
“So,” she said, falling into step beside him with the casual grace of a predator, “heard you're getting busy in the library.”
“I’m studying for finals,” Clark said, adjusting his backpack strap. “We're all getting busy in the library. It's what libraries are for.”
“Uh-huh.” Lois's grin was sharp enough to cut glass. “Six hours a day, same room, with Bruce Wayne. That's some serious studying.”
Clark stopped walking. “How do you—never mind. I don't want to know how you know that.”
“Clark. Honey. Sweet summer child.” Lois patted his arm with the kind of condescending affection usually reserved for particularly slow pets. “Bruce Wayne doesn't study with people. Bruce Wayne barely acknowledges that other people exist in the same dimension as him.”
“Well, maybe he's branching out.”
”Into you?”
“Into collaborative studying!” Clark said, probably too loudly, because several passing students turned to stare. “It's a thing. People do it. Study together. In rooms. For academic purposes.”
“Academic purposes,” Lois repeated slowly, like she was testing the words for hidden meaning. “Right. And I'm sure it's purely coincidental that according to my sources, you both left the study room yesterday looking like you'd been wrestling, and Bruce Wayne was wearing your sweatshirt.”
“The heating was broken!”
“Sure it was.” Lois's expression suggested she'd just connected several dots and was very pleased with the picture they made. “Clark, darling, I've seen the way you looked at him in philosophy class. You get this glazed expression like you’re composing poetry in your head.”
“I do not—”
“His eyes are like storm clouds over a turbulent sea,” Lois recited in a breathy voice that was probably meant to be romantic but mostly sounded like she was narrating a soap opera. “His jawline could cut diamonds and my fragile heart.”
“I have never thought any of those things,” Clark lied.
“So if I were to hypothetically mention that half the campus is running a betting pool on whether you two are going to emerge from that study room having had what my grandmother would euphemistically call 'biblical knowledge' of each other, you'd be completely shocked?”
Clark felt the color drain from his face. “A betting pool?”
“Jimmy's running the odds. Currently, it's three-to-one that Wayne will be walking funny by next Tuesday.”
Clark arrived at Study Room 237B to find a small crowd gathered outside, all pretending to study while clearly straining to eavesdrop. He recognized at least three people from his journalism cohort, two students from Bruce's computer science program, and what appeared to be a graduate student with a notebook who was probably conducting some sort of anthropological study on undergraduate mating rituals.
He pushed through them with the resigned dignity of a man walking to his execution.
Inside, Bruce was already set up, but he looked... tenser than usual. If that was possible. His shoulders were rigid, and he was typing with the kind of focused intensity that suggested he was either working on something incredibly important or trying very hard to ignore something.
“So,” Clark said, settling into his chair and trying to project normalcy, “I think we might have a slight problem.”
“The surveillance,” Bruce said without looking up from his laptop.
“You noticed?”
“Hard not to. Jenny from your journalism cohort has been timing our sessions with a stopwatch. Tommy from my algorithms class asked if I was 'getting my data structures sorted,' and I'm reasonably certain that wasn't a technical question.”
Clark winced. “Yeah, so apparently there's a... betting pool.”
Bruce's fingers paused over his keyboard. “Regarding?”
“Our... activities. In here. People seem to think we're...” Clark gestured vaguely between them. “You know.”
"Engaging in sexual congress," Bruce said matter-of-factly.
Clark choked on nothing. “You don't have to say it like that.”
“How would you prefer I phrase it? 'Making the beast with two backs'? 'Horizontal refreshment'? 'Bumping uglies'?”
“Please stop.”
Bruce’s mouth twitched. “I'm simply clarifying the parameters of the rumors.”
“Right. Well. The parameters are apparently very... detailed.” Clark felt heat creep up his neck. “According to Lois, people think we're going to emerge from this room having had 'biblical knowledge' of each other.”
“Interesting phrasing. Though technically inaccurate, since biblical knowledge typically refers to—“
“Bruce.”
Before their conversation could continue, there was a soft knock on the door. They both froze like deer caught in headlights.
“Occupied!” Clark called out, his voice slightly higher than usual.
“Just checking if you need anything,” came a muffled voice that sounded suspiciously like Marie from the library’s front desk. “You boys need extra... supplies? Tissues? Lotion?”
Clark felt his face go approximately the color of a fire truck. “We're fine, thank you!”
Footsteps retreated, followed by what sounded like muffled giggling.
Bruce and Clark sat in silence for a moment.
“Lotion and tissues?” Bruce said finally, his voice carefully neutral.
“I don't want to think about it.”
“Probably wise. Though from a purely logistical standpoint—”
“Bruce.”
Bruce's expression was perfectly innocent, but Clark was starting to recognize the signs of Bruce Wayne being deliberately obtuse for his own amusement.
Day 8
“The attention is… inconvenient,” Clark sighed. “Someone asked me yesterday if we needed soundproofing. Soundproofing.”
“Did you tell them we already have adequate noise reduction?”
Clark stared at him. “That's not—that's not the point, Bruce.”
“What is the point?”
Clark opened his mouth, then closed it. He wasn't sure what the point was, exactly. The rumors were embarrassing, yes, but they were also... not entirely unpleasant. There was something oddly thrilling about the idea that people looked at him and Bruce and saw something worth gossiping about, even if that something was completely fabricated.
“I don't know,” he admitted finally.
Bruce looked at him for a long moment, and Clark had the unsettling sensation that he was being parsed like code again.
“I could relocate,” Bruce said quietly.
“What?”
“If the attention is problematic. I could find somewhere else to work.”
Clark felt something sink in his chest like a stone. “Oh. Yeah, that makes sense. More logical.”
“It would be the most efficient solution.”
“Right. Well. I should probably—” Clark started gathering his things, trying not to feel stupid about the disappointment that was settling over him. Of course Bruce would want to relocate. Of course he'd approach this like any other problem to be solved with the most logical solution.
“Clark.”
Clark looked up, and Bruce was watching him with that same intense, focused expression that made Clark feel like the most interesting person in the world.
“Tomorrow,” Bruce said. “Same time. Study room 237B.”
Clark blinked. “But you just said—”
“I said I could work somewhere else. I didn't say I wanted to. Besides, I don't make decisions based on other people's illogical assumptions.”
“But the rumors—”
“Are statistically irrelevant,” Bruce said firmly. “Let them think what they want. Their speculation doesn't change the facts.”
“And what are the facts?”
Bruce was quiet for a long moment, his fingers drumming that familiar pattern against the table.
“The facts,” he said finally, “are that this arrangement is efficient. Productive. I work better with you here.”
It wasn't exactly a declaration of undying devotion, but coming from Bruce Wayne, it felt like one.
Clark definitely did not smile about it for the rest of the day.
Day 11
By Tuesday, the rumors had evolved.
Clark discovered this when he overheard two students discussing their “study sessions” in vivid detail that suggested either very creative imaginations or access to some sort of erotica database.
“I heard they went through three highlighters in one session,” the first student was saying. “Three. What do you even need that much highlighting for?”
“Maybe they weren't using them for highlighting,” the second student replied with a suggestive waggle of their eyebrows.
Clark decided he didn't want to know what alternative uses they'd imagined for office supplies.
When he arrived at the study room, Bruce was already there, but his usual fortress of laptops had been rearranged. Instead of sitting across from each other like business associates, their chairs were now positioned next to each other, angled slightly inward.
“New configuration?” Clark asked, settling into his seat and trying not to notice how the new arrangement meant Bruce was close enough that Clark could smell his cologne which was something that made Clark want to lean closer.
“More efficient communication pathways,” Bruce said, not looking up from his screen.
The new setup also meant that when Bruce leaned forward to reference his textbooks, his shoulder brushed against Clark's. It was probably accidental. It was definitely distracting.
Bruce's phone buzzed. He glanced at it, frowned, and then typed something quickly.
“Problem?” Clark asked.
“My roommate wants to know if I'm still alive. I may have missed several meals. And sleep cycles. Time becomes fluid during extended focus periods.”
Clark stared at him. “Bruce. When was the last time you went back to your dorm?”
“Friday. Why?”
“It's Tuesday. Of the next week.”
Bruce looked genuinely surprised by this information. “Is it?”
Clark closed his laptop with a decisive snap. “Okay, that's it. We're taking a break.”
“I don’t take breaks.”
“Well, today you do. Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
Clark was already standing, gathering both their things with the kind of determination usually reserved for emergency evacuations. “To get you some actual food and possibly some sunlight.”
Bruce looked like he wanted to argue, but he also looked like he might fall over if someone looked at him wrong, so he just followed Clark out of the study room.
Then, they walked directly into what appeared to be an ambush.
The hallway outside their study room was crowded with students who were all very obviously pretending to be there for legitimate academic reasons. Clark recognized most of them from previous surveillance attempts, plus several new faces who were probably drawn by the growing legend of whatever was happening in Study Room 237B.
“Hey, Clark!” said Jenny from his journalism cohort, with a bright smile that didn't quite hide the gleam of journalistic curiosity in her eyes. “How's the studying going?”
“Fine,” Clark said, acutely aware that he was carrying both his and Bruce's laptops and that Bruce was wearing Clark's sweatshirt again. “Just taking a quick break.”
“Good to know! You guys sure spend a lot of time in there,” said Tommy, Bruce's algorithms classmate, grinning like he'd just discovered the secrets of the universe. “Must be some really intensive collaboration.”
“We're very thorough,” Bruce said, his voice perfectly level, but there was something in his tone that made the statement sound like exactly what everyone thought they were doing in that study room.
Clark choked on air. The gathered students looked like Christmas had come early.
“Right,” Clark managed, his voice slightly strangled. “Thorough. That's us. Very... comprehensive in our approach.”
Bruce's mouth twitched almost imperceptibly.
“We believe in exploring every angle,” Bruce continued, apparently warming to his theme. “Multiple approaches. Extended sessions.”
Clark was going to die. He was going to spontaneously combust right here in the hallway, and his obituary was going to read Journalism major expires from terminal embarrassment and possible sexual frustration.
“Bruce,” he said weakly.
“We find that sustained effort yields the best results,” Bruce said, his expression perfectly serious. “Though it can be exhausting.”
The crowd was eating this up. Clark could practically hear them composing text messages to spread the news.
“Anyway,” Clark said loudly, “we should go. Food. Fresh air. Normal human activities.”
He grabbed Bruce's arm and steered him toward the exit, trying to ignore the fact that Bruce's bicep was surprisingly solid under the soft fabric of Clark's sweatshirt.
Behind them, he could hear the excited buzz of conversation as the crowd dispersed to spread the latest intelligence about whatever was happening between Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne.
“I can't believe you said that,” Clark said fifteen minutes later, watching Bruce methodically work his way through what appeared to be his first real meal in days.
They were sitting in the campus coffee shop, tucked into a corner booth that offered relative privacy from the steady stream of students who kept walking by and craning their necks to get a better look at them.
“Said what?” Bruce asked, pausing with his sandwich halfway to his mouth.
“‘We're very thorough.' You know exactly what that sounded like.”
Bruce took a careful bite and chewed thoughtfully. “I was referring to our academic methodology.”
“Bruce.”
“Our approach is indeed comprehensive.”
“Bruce.”
“We're detail-oriented.”
“You're doing this on purpose.”
Bruce's expression was perfectly innocent, but Clark was starting to recognize the signs of Bruce Wayne being entertained once again.
“You think this is funny,” Clark accused.
“I think,” Bruce said carefully, setting down his sandwich, “that people are going to believe what they want to believe regardless of what we do. So we might as well give them something to believe in.”
Clark felt heat creep up his neck. “You're enjoying this.”
“I'm finding it... educational.”
“Educational, how?”
Bruce was quiet for a moment, his fingers drumming that familiar pattern against the table. “I’m learning about social dynamics. Rumor propagation. The speed at which misinformation spreads through closed academic communities.”
“Is that all?”
Another pause. Longer this time. Bruce's ears were starting to turn pink again.
“No,” he said quietly.
Clark waited, but Bruce had apparently reached his daily word limit for personal revelation, because he turned his attention back to his sandwich with the kind of focused intensity that suggested the conversation was over.
But Clark caught the way Bruce glanced at him when he thought Clark wasn't looking. And the way his fingers lingered when he handed Clark his coffee. And the way he'd positioned himself in the booth so that their knees bumped under the table.
Day 12
“Okay,” Jimmy said, cornering Clark outside their dorm that evening. “I need details.”
“There are no details.”
“Clark. My friend. My buddy. My pal.” Jimmy blocked his path with the determination of someone who had clearly been planning this ambush for hours. “You do know there’s a betting pool, half the computer science program is taking notes for what I can only assume is some sort of research project, and Lois told me she's considering writing an exposé about whatever's happening between you and the Wayne heir for the campus paper.”
Clark slumped against the wall. “We're just studying together.”
“And I'm just a casual observer of human behavior who definitely hasn't noticed that you've started dressing better.”
Clark looked down at himself. He was wearing his good jeans and a button-down shirt instead of his usual t-shirt and hoodie combination. “It's... I ran out of clean clothes.”
“For a week?”
“I'm behind on laundry.”
Jimmy gave him a look that suggested he wasn't buying what Clark was selling.
“Clark. Buddy. If you don't want to tell me about your torrid academic affair with Gotham's most eligible bachelor, that's fine. But can you at least confirm that you're being safe? Because Lois made me promise to give you The Talk if necessary, and neither of us wants that.”
“There's nothing to be safe about!”
“Yet,” Jimmy said sagely. “Look, finals are in three days. After that, you'll either never see him again, or you'll figure out a way to keep seeing him. But right now, you're wasting time standing here talking to me instead of being in that room with him.”
Clark checked his watch. Jimmy was right. He was almost half an hour late for their usual study session.
“Go,” Jimmy said, shoving him toward the library. “Be thorough.”
“I hate all of you,” Clark muttered, but he was already jogging toward the library.
When Clark pushed open the door to Study Room 237B, Bruce looked up with an expression that might have been relief.
“You're late,” Bruce said, and there was something in his voice that Clark couldn't quite identify.
“Sorry. Jimmy ambushed me with questions about our alleged torrid affair.”
“Alleged?”
Clark paused in the act of unpacking his laptop. “Well. Yeah. Alleged. Because it's not... I mean, we're not...” He gestured helplessly between them.
Bruce was very quiet for a very long time, his fingers drumming that familiar pattern against the table.
“Clark,” he said finally.
“Yeah?”
“After finals...”
Clark's heart did something complicated in his chest. “Yeah?”
But Bruce seemed to lose his nerve, because he just shook his head and went back to typing.
Clark wanted to push, wanted to ask what Bruce had been about to say, but something about the set of Bruce's shoulders suggested he'd already retreated behind his usual walls.
They worked in silence for the next hour, but it was a different kind of silence than usual. Charged. Expectant. Like the air before a thunderstorm.
Finally, Clark couldn't take it anymore.
“I'm going to miss this,” he said, not looking up from his notes.
Bruce's typing stopped. “This?”
“The studying. The collaboration. The...” Clark gestured around the room that had somehow become theirs over the past week. “I know it's just temporary, because of the booking error, but it's been... good. Having someone to work with.”
“Good,” Bruce repeated, like he was testing the word.
“Yeah. I mean, I know you probably have better things to do than babysit a journalism major through his finals, but—”
“Clark.”
Something in Bruce's voice made Clark look up. Bruce was staring at him with that intense, focused expression, but there was something different about it now. Something almost... vulnerable.
“There was no booking error,” Bruce said quietly.
Clark blinked. “What?”
“I booked the room after you. I checked the system first. Your reservation was already there. I could have chosen any of the seventeen other available rooms.”
“But you didn't.”
“No.”
Clark's brain was working very slowly, like a computer trying to process too much information at once. “Why?”
Bruce's jaw worked like he was trying to solve a particularly difficult equation. When he spoke, his voice was so quiet that Clark had to lean forward to hear him.
“I saw you in Professor Crane's class. You sat three rows ahead of me, and you had this habit of tilting your head when you were thinking about something particularly hard. And you'd bite your pen cap when Professor Crane asked questions you wanted to answer but weren't sure about.”
Clark stared at him. “You were watching me?”
“I was... observing,” Bruce said, and his ears were definitely pink now. “You asked good questions. Thoughtful questions. And when you disagreed with something, you'd get this expression like you were mentally composing a counter-argument.”
“Bruce—”
“The revolving door was an accident,” Bruce continued, like he needed to get this out before he lost his nerve. “But when I saw you'd booked this study room, I thought... I thought maybe it was an opportunity.”
“An opportunity for what?”
Bruce was quiet for so long that Clark thought he might not answer. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.
“To talk to you. To get to know you. Without other students and Professor Crane's lectures getting in the way.”
Clark felt something warm and dangerous unfurl in his chest. “So you've been... what? Engineering study sessions?”
“I prefer 'optimizing opportunities for social interaction.'”
“Bruce Wayne,” Clark said slowly, “did you develop a crush on me and then orchestrate an entire fake study arrangement to spend time with me?”
Bruce's expression was perfectly serious. “That would be a highly inefficient use of my time and resources.”
“That's not an answer.”
“It's an accurate answer.”
They stared at each other across the small table, and Clark could hear his own heartbeat in the silence.
“So,” Clark said finally, “what happens now?”
“Now?”
“After finals. When we don't have the excuse of shared academic suffering to keep meeting like this.”
Bruce's fingers had stopped their drumming. His hands were perfectly still on the table, like he was afraid any movement might break whatever fragile thing was building between them.
“I was hoping,” he said carefully, “that we might not need an excuse.”
Clark felt his face split into what was probably the most ridiculous grin in the history of human expression. “Are you asking me out, Bruce Wayne?”
“I'm suggesting that our collaboration might extend beyond academic parameters.”
“That's the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me, and it shouldn't be.”
Bruce's mouth twitched in what was definitely a smile now. “I'm working on my interpersonal communication skills.”
“They need work,” Clark agreed, and then, because he was apparently feeling brave, “but I like your approach to problem-solving.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah. Very... thorough.”
Bruce's smile widened, and Clark realized he'd never seen Bruce Wayne actually smile before. It was devastating. It was probably illegal in several states.
“Clark,” Bruce said, and his voice was different now. Warmer, less careful.
“Yeah?”
“If it hasn’t been obvious... I like you.”
Clark smiled, eyes soft. “Yeah. I kinda got that.”
They grinned at each other like idiots, and Clark thought dimly that if anyone walked in right now, they'd definitely have something to add to the betting pool.
“So,” he said, “should we tell people? About this?” He gestured between them.
Bruce's expression turned thoughtful. “I think,” he said slowly, “that people are going to figure it out on their own.”
“Probably,” Clark agreed. “Especially if you keep making suggestive comments about our study habits.”
“I wasn't being suggestive. I was being accurate.”
“Bruce, you told Tommy from your algorithms class that we believe in 'exploring every angle' and 'extended sessions.' In what universe is that not suggestive?”
“In a universe where those are legitimate academic methodologies,” Bruce said with perfect seriousness.
Clark shook his head, still grinning. “You're going to be the death of me.”
“Statistically unlikely. Though I suppose there's always the possibility of cardiac complications related to—”
Clark completely leaned in and kissed him.
It was supposed to be a quick kiss, just enough to shut Bruce up before he started calculating the statistical probability of Clark dying from embarrassment. But Bruce made a soft sound of surprise and also leaned into it, and suddenly, Clark was discovering that Bruce Wayne tasted like coffee and possibility and something that was definitely going to become addictive.
When they broke apart, Bruce's hair was mussed, his lips were slightly swollen, and he was looking at Clark like he'd just solved the most complex equation in the world.
“That was...” Bruce started.
“Thorough?” Clark suggested.
Bruce's laugh was quiet, genuine, and absolutely perfect. “I was going to say 'unexpected,' but thorough works too.”
“Good,” Clark said, settling back in his chair with what he hoped was casual confidence. “Because I'm planning to be very thorough. Multiple approaches. Extended sessions.”
Bruce's ears went pink again, but he was smiling. “I think I'm going to enjoy our expanded collaboration.”
“Me too.”
They went back to studying, but the silence was different now. Comfortable and full of promise. Clark caught Bruce glancing at him every few minutes, and he definitely caught Bruce's fingers lingering when he handed over a pen.
When Bruce's foot nudged against his under the table, Clark nudged back.
When Bruce stretched and his shirt rode up slightly, revealing a strip of pale skin, Clark definitely didn't stare. Much.
When Clark yawned and Bruce wordlessly slid his coffee cup toward him, Clark felt something settle in his chest that felt suspiciously like happiness.
Day 472
Bruce had rearranged the room again. Clark found it endearing. This compulsive need to organize and reorganize their shared space whenever he was working through something complex. The scattered textbooks from yesterday had been stacked into neat towers, and fresh coffee cups replaced the old ones that had accumulated like sediment layers marking the passage of long study sessions.
“Wow,” Clark said, pausing in the doorway to take in the elaborate flowcharts and mind maps that covered every available inch of whiteboard space. Bruce's handwriting flowed across the boards in that precise script of his, connecting concepts with arrows and brackets in a web only he could fully decipher. “Did you sleep at all last night?”
Bruce glanced up from where he was adding another branch to what looked like a decision tree. “Hmm. Yes, actually. I do take my boyfriend's advice, you know.”
Clark raised an eyebrow. “Since when?”
“Since you threatened to hide my coffee maker if I pulled another all-nighter,” Bruce remarked, turning to face him fully with an almost-smile ghosting at the corners of his mouth.
Clark moved closer, drawn by the magnetic pull of his boyfriend's presence. “You know,” he said, his voice dropping to that lower register reserved for moments when they were truly alone, “there were all those wild rumors last year... and I think we can recreate some of them now.”
Bruce's ears bloomed pink first, the color spreading like watercolor down his neck in a pattern Clark had committed to memory. “Clark...”
“I'm just saying,” Clark continued.
The blush deepened to crimson, painting Bruce's cheekbones in a way that made Clark's chest tighten with affection. But Bruce didn't retreat. Instead, he reached out with steady fingers and caught Clark's shirt collar, using it as leverage to draw him closer.
Some things, Clark reflected as Bruce's lips found his, were worth all the rumors in the world. Even if those rumors had been completely, thoroughly, and comprehensively accurate.