"It is the open doors that frighten people the most, rather than the closed doors!" — Mehmet Murat Ildan
Professor!Newt x GradStudent!Thomas 𑣲 Chapter 1 𑣲 WC: 1,036 A/N: Guys, I don't know shit about engineering. Bear with me. I might make this into a series? I don't know. What do y'all think?
Thomas can find Professor Lawrence's office in his sleep.
Third floor. End of the hall. The last door on the left, that never quite shut unless you drove your hip into it with unreasonable force. The wood is slightly warped near the hinge. It sticks in humid weather and groans in the winter.
A faded postcard from Reykjavik is taped crookedly beside the frame: Black sandy beaches under a vast sky with cliffs rising out of the sea mist. The edges have curled over the months, surrendering slowly to the dry campus air.
He'd walks the corridor so often, the floorboards seem to recognize him. They creak in familiar places under the weight of his steps. Somewhere down the hall, the printer stutters and coughs.
He doesn't knock anymore. He doesn't need to. Professor Lawrence waved off the formality weeks ago: 'You're practically living here, Thomas. Just come in.'
So, Thomas rounds the corner now, skimming through an email glowing against his palm, thumbs flicking distractedly across the screen as he pushes the door open with absentminded familiarity.
"Professor, I ran a new coastal displacement model and the erosion variable is still—" The words fall flat, and don't land anywhere, because it isn't Professor Lawrence behind the desk.
The room is wrong. The shelves are rearranged. The clutter Lawrence tolerated is gone. Even the Reykjavik postcard is missing. In Lawrence's chair sits a stranger.
He's tall, blonde, and composed. His sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, revealing pale skin and fine lines of muscle beneath. Glasses balance low on the bridge of his nose as he reads. A cane rests against the edge of the desk, positioned easily within reach. Not decorative. Necessary.
He looks up slowly, eyes settling on Thomas, studying him the way someone might study streaks of mud tracked across a clean floor.
"Can I help you?" His voice is calm, the accent distinctly British. He closes the book in front of him, one hand resting briefly atop the cover as though marking the item he fully intends to return to.
Thomas glances over his shoulder into the hallway. Did he miscount the doors? The corridor looks the same. Same scuffed baseboards. Same fluorescent lights.
"Where's Professor Lawrence?" He blurts, the question sounding ruder than he'd intended. The stranger's gaze flicks to the shiny new nameplate on the desk.
'Dr. Newton Issac - Environmental Ethics'
"He's taken a sabbatical." The man says. "As of last week."
"That's not possible." Thomas blinks. "He didn't say anything."
"Perhaps," Dr. Issac replies, folding his hands loosely on the desk. "He assumes students read the departmental announcements." Heat prickles at the back of Thomas' neck.
"I do read the announcements."
"Mhm." The small, dismissive hum slides unpleasantly down his spine, and Thomas lowers his phone, sliding it into his pocket.
"I'm working under him." Thomas says, stepping fully into the doorway noww. "My thesis proposal is due in three weeks." The door remains half open beside him, resting on its stubborn hinge. Dr. Issac leans slightly back in his chair.
"And you are?"
"Thomas Stephens." He says, lifting his chin slightly. "Master's candidate. Environmental engineering." There's obvious pride in those words.
"I see." Dr. Issac murmurs.
"And you are?" Thomas shoots back, folding his arms. The blonde arches a brow.
"Dr. Issac."
"Right." Thomas exhales through his nose. "That's helpful."
For the briefest second, Dr. Issac's mouth twitches upward. It's not quite a smile. More like he's filing Thomas away under the label 'mildly interesting'.
"I've been appointed as interim supervisor for Professor Lawrence's postgraduate advisees." He says evenly. "Which, I imagine, includes you." Thomas' stomach sinks.
"You're not in engineering."
"No."
"You're in ethics."
"Yes."
"That doesn't make any sense." Thomas huffs, irritated by the calm responses.
"On the contrary," Dr. Issac's eyes narrow. "It makes perfect sense."
"With all due respect, Doctor," Thomas says, his jaw tightening. "My research is computational. I build predictive models. I don't write opinion pieces."
Ouch.
"And with respect," Dr. Issac returns, tone sharpening. "Your models predict human displacement on a catastrophic scale. That is not a purely computational matter."
Thomas feels the frustration fester beneath his skin, tightening his shoulders and squeezing around his ribcage.
"...How do you know what my research is?"
"I read your proposal draft."
"What?"
"It was forwarded to me this morning."
"Without telling me?" He scoffs.
"I'd have to read it eventually."
"That's not the point."
"Isn't it?" Dr. Issac tilts his head.
Silence stretches, and Thomas becomes more aware of his position: Half in, half out. Standing in the doorway like an intruder in the space he's occupied for months.
He steps fully into the office, and the door swings inward on its' stubborn hinge, hovering, not quite closed behind him.
"Look," He says, forcing steadiness into his voice. "I need someone who understands my field."
"And you assume I don't?"
"You're a philosopher." Thomas exhales impatiently.
"I assure you," Dr. Issac replies firmly. "I understand collapse dynamics quite well."
He doesn't sound offended. He doesn't sound defensive. He sounds certain, and that certainty unsettles Thomas. For a dangerous second, he considers backing down.
He doesn't.
Instead, he steps forward.
He closes the remaining distance between him and the desk, palms pressing flat against the polished wood. He leans in without fully registering how confrontational the position makes him look.
"Fine." Thomas says. "Then what's wrong with my model?"
Dr. Issac's stares. His eyes trace the unmistakable tension in Thomas' shoulders. The angled set of his jaw. The way his fingers splay harshly on the desk.
"How long do you have?" He asks, and the dryness borders on boredom. Thomas' teeth grit. Dr. Issac gestures to the open chair opposite to his desk. "Sit, Mr. Stephens." The formality bristles. "Oh," He adds, an afterthought: "And shut that bloody door."
Thomas holds his gaze for one suspended moment longer. Then, he straightens and turns. The door is still half open, caught against the warped frame.
He exhales once, then sharply drives his hand into it. Once. Twice. On the third shove, it slams shut with a heavy thud. The sound echoes in the small office.
The room is sealed.
The bloody door is shut.