A/N: Written for the Hermann Holidays on tumblr. Enjoy!

There was lemon meringue pie today.

It was no secret that Professor Gottlieb was the first to arrive at work as well as the last to leave, and sometimes that dedication had its perks. He was able to slip into the Mathematic Department's faculty lounge, hook his cane over the back of a nearby chair, cut himself a larger slice than he might have if others had been present, and for a few minutes simply enjoy the whipped, tart, and zesty flavors that rolled smoothly over his tongue.

Hermann had a weakness for exceptional baked goods.

And these were exceptional. They always had been, for the past... well, nearly a year now. Ever since Hermann had walked in at precisely 6:00am one Monday morning and found a plate of brownies already waiting. He'd been able to see from the cracks on top that they'd been baked to perfection; the first taste had proved that only the best quality ingredients had been used. Or maybe they hadn't. Perhaps this mysterious baker had the ability to transform store bought rubbish into gold. Hermann wouldn't put it past him—or her. All he knew for sure was that a new treat waited each Monday, making the beginning of the week just slightly more bearable.

Finished, Hermann wiped his mouth with the napkins that had so graciously been provided and chucked the disposable plate and fork. He left the rest of the pie centered on the table for his colleagues. With any luck, there might be some remaining when he returned at nightfall.

For now Hermann left the lounge with a full stomach, the hint of a smile, and the slightest dot of yellow marring his shirt.

None of those things lasted.

The students, as always, were mediocre at best and downright uninspired at worst. For three hours their snores and repetitive, "So will this be on the test?" grated at Hermann until finally he just assigned them problems from the book. He took to pondering his own research while they no doubt doodled obscene imagery in the margins of their notes. If class had gone better, perhaps he would not have experienced quite so much annoyance at finding his collar soiled.

"Honestly," Hermann muttered. He scrubbed at the stain the pie had left on his shirt, the bathroom water causing him to shiver even more so than usual. Frustrated, cold, and now hungry again as the lunch period neared, Hermann shoved the door open, cane first—

—and plowed straight into Dr. Geiszler.

"Do watch where you're going," he said, stiffly regaining his balance. Newt comically peddled backwards.

"Dude, I'm not the one charging out Three Musketeers style. Do you even have a license to carry that thing? It's a menace!"

Rolling his eyes Hermann shoved past the biologist, ignoring his indignant squawk. In a perfect world he'd have less with tiny, tattooed men who thought it was sensible to skateboard down the halls and chug chocolate milk cartons twice an hour. As it was, Hermann lived in a world of budget cuts and idiot bureaucracy. After fire had consumed the biology department the school had thought it "prudent" to relocate them into the Classics wing above Mathematics (the classicists were a dying breed anyway). They claimed that funding for a new building was in the works, but until then Hermann had submitted far too many complaints with the word "professionalism" underlined in red pen.

Two years. It was a miracle he'd survived this long.

"Hey—hey! C'mon, man. Jeez I thought you were lame or something, how do you move so fa—whoa!"

Hermann whirled on him. "What did you just say to me?" He hissed.

Again Newt nearly lost his balance, or at least he pretended to. Finally setting his feet he ducked his head, then peaked up at Hermann with a truly ridiculous smile.

Hermann's heart did not stutter. It did not.

"You're uh… lame, man?" It came out a question. Then: "A noob! Yeah. That's it. You're a lame-o, Hermann. Duh."

"That is not what you meant."

A brief flash of regret flew across Newt's face. It was gone in an instant though. "Well… yeah. Sorry not sorry. It's true though. Both! You're lame and you're wicked fast for being lame, it's impressive really and wow I should probably shut up now huh and—oh hey! Do you like my shirt?"

It wasn't the first time Newt had emerged with a random, completely idiotic question, and now doubt it would not be the last. Hermann briefly closed his eyes, fortifying himself against actually looking at whatever the man had clothed himself in today.

The skinny jeans were normal. As were the black shoes and leather jacket (honestly, did he have no shame?) What was new was the bright yellow shirt he'd donned underneath. It was canary yellow. A July sun yellow. The kind of yellow found in a particularly good lemon merengue pie.

There was absolutely not reason for him to be blushing.

Newt was grinning at him expectantly.

"It's hideous." Hermann snapped and stomped off, relying entirely on that speed.

There hadn't been any pie left. Hermann suspected Dr. Hensen, a combination of the engineering department not having a lounge of their own and this particular engineer possessing the ability to eat his weight in sweets daily. Not that Hermann was one to judge. Still, he was disappointed to find only a few crumbs and smears remaining in the bottom of the pie tin.

Yellow smears. Like Newt's shirt.

Scowling Hermann snatched the tin and chucked it face down into the trash. The least his colleagues could do was clean up after themselves. He kicked the table leg on his way across the room, attributing his mood entirely to poor manners.

But maybe a dab of merengue caught on Hermann's knuckle as he was cleaning up. Maybe he licked it off.

(Maybe he thought of Newt).

"Preposterous." he muttered, slamming the door as he left.

Next Monday there was a heap of chocolate chip cookies on the table.

Hermann's mouth was already watering, but he forced himself to take his time: coat hung carefully on its peg, briefcase set to the side, forage for a napkin in case of crumbs, turn up the lounge's beat-up radiator... it was actually a good ten minutes before Hermann sat to try one. Choosing from the very top, he took another moment to admire the perfection that was a cookie browned around the edges but not burnt on the bottom, and spouting more chocolate chips than should be physically possible.

He took a bite... and promptly groaned.

They were still warm. How the bloody hell was that even possible. Hermann glared at the cookie even as he devoured it. Fall had hit full force and unless this person made the cookies in their non-existent kitchenette then there was no logical reason why they should still be this hot and gooey.

Hermann ate two more, cursing them as he went.

Not for the first time he wondered if Dr. Stacker wasn't the mystery baker. A former mathematics professor himself, he frequently visited the department as he went about his other duties. Hermann had changed universities four times in his career (due primarily to "disagreements" between himself and nit-wit fools that dared to call themselves colleagues) and he had yet to meet a more devoted Head of School. If anyone were likely to be coming in earlier than Hermann, it was Stacker. Not to mention the fact that he'd seen Stacker's daughter, Mako, quite frequently as she flit from place to place. Now eight, she had a knack for escaping Stacker's watchful gaze while visiting... and she also had a serious sweet tooth. It would make sense that if their stoic Head enjoyed baking Extra Fudge Delight Brownies for his little girl then he might also enjoy baking for his employees. It was logical.

Nevertheless, Hermann frowned at the still towering plate of sweets.

These simply did not feel like Stacker and for all that there was a respectable professionalism between them, Hermann could not claim to know Stacker terribly well, or vice versa. The treats though... as ridiculous as it sounded, Hermann sometimes got the impression that they were specifically made for him. After all, why were they always snuck in so early? (Because this person does not want to be seen, of course). Why the napkins and forks for the cupcakes? Hermann was the only one who ever bothered with them. (Because they're polite, you fool.) Why had there never been another nut laden food after Hermann had sneered at a pecan pie back in May? (It's a coincidence, surely. Nothing more).

Maybe. Probably. But sometimes Hermann liked to pretend that someone was making all this for him, putting in that time and effort and care.

It would certainly be a first.

"HEY, GOTTLIEB!"

Hermann jerked, smacking him arm against the plate and sending cookies flying in all directions. He tried grabbing at a few as they tumbled towards the floor.

"GOOOOOOTLIEB."

"WHAT?" Hermann hollered. Clapping a hand over his mouth—hoping there was no one else around the hear—he staggered towards the window and wrenched it open. There, standing three stories below, was Newt. He hopped from side to side in the cold wind, trying to both blow on his hands and keep them hidden under his armpits (which of course didn't work in the least). Seeing Hermann's head pop out he grinned and did a little twirl.

It wasn't cute. Certainly not. Idiotic was the term.

Quite.

"Did you want something, Dr. Geiszler?" Hermann said.

"Just saying hi, man." Newt called up. He was doing full jumps now, up and down like a hyperactive rabbit. "Great morning, yeah? Brisk! I was thinking about getting a latte from the shop in the library. Not the fourth floor one. That one sucks. No, the one in the basement. It's great! Opens up super early too which is awesome. I don't think those kids ever sleep. You been? You wanna go? They've got that mocha stuff I've seen you chugging."

Maybe.

"Absolutely not." Hermann said.

"Aw, c'mon. They've got milk if you prefer that, cookie monster."

Hermann spluttered. "Excuse me?"

"Cookie monster." Newt pointed at something to Hermann's left. His own hand apparently. Hermann still held two of the cookies tight between his fingers. Chocolate was smeared against his palm.

"Are you liking the cookies, Hermann? I heard you math geeks get treats. No fair! Can I have some? Just one? I've got a lecture at nine, man, help me out here I need the sugar. Just one itty bitty cookie? Pleeeease?"

"You do not need the sugar." Newt pouted. "Or the caffeine!" Hermann added as he slammed the window closed. Before he did though he tossed the mangled cookies out over Newt's head. The muffled cry he heard could have been happiness or indignation.

The rest of the morning Hermann was thrumming with energy. It was only when he'd calmed down around lunch that he was able to think,

How did Newt know he'd be up in the lounge that early?

Why did he lie about the coffee shop? (Hermann had checked of course. The one in the basement didn't open until 10:00).

And what was a self proclaimed sleepaholic doing on campus at the crack of dawn, hovering below the one, occupied window?

Hermann was beginning to have his suspicions.

Things took a turn after that. Or perhaps Hermann simply became more aware.

Throughout the week Newt was as obnoxious as always—his voice screeched down the hallways as he and the other bio-people reveled in blowing things up (or creating a louse the size of a dog, if Newt was to be believed). He still popped into Hermann's seminars under the guise of dropping off "paperwork" (that always consisted of monster drawings that were, admittedly, somewhat beautiful. Newt always liked to brag about designing his own tattoos). He still sent Hermann ridiculous texts during their board meetings, and laughed mockingly at his latest research, and screamed "Nah nah, can't catch me!" while running away when he'd accepted that he'd lost an argument (which should be always). Newton Geiszler was, at his core, the most annoying, idiotic, frustrating man that Hermann had ever had the misfortune of sharing a building with.

He was also a genius.

At least he was compared to Hermann of the last year because it took Newt standing under his window (and really, how cliche was that?) for Hermann to finally get it. To notice just how odd Mondays were. It wasn't just that baked goods magically appeared in the lounge... it was that Newt was always (just slightly) nicer.

Manipulative too.

Like a guilty look, a yellow pie, and a god-awful yellow t-shirt.

Or asking him to a drink, leaving cookies, and calling him "cookie-monster."

The Monday after that incident, Hermann found a collection of homemade lollipops wrapped and presented like a bouquet. Three hours later Newt was offering to cover his office hours. When Hermann refused he shrugged and walked off whistling the Chordette's "Lollipop."

The week after that there were cookies again. Colorful ones dyed to perfection. It didn't escape Hermann's notice that these colors perfectly matched Newt's tattoos. Nor that this was the only day that week where he didn't make fun of Hermann's sweaters.

Newton was the baker. The realization made Hermann seethe.

"Professor?" At the front of the class Maria hesitantly raised her hand. "Are... you okay?"

How long had he standing there? Hermann looked down at his chalk. He'd split it in two. Some of it had actually become powder.

"Would you excuse me a moment?"

For the first and only time Hermann Gottlieb left a class halfway through, unattended. His students watched him go, wondering what could possibly pull him away from a lecture.

None of them—ever—would have guessed the biology lab.

Two minutes later Hermann had effectively cleared the lab with angry yelling and had Newt up against the wall, pinned with his cane.

"Dude." Newt squeaked. "I told you. License."

Hermann merely narrowed his eyes, pressed the tip a little harder into the softness of Newt's belly. He tried valiantly not to let that distract him.

"I," he annunciated "am not Pavlov's dog. You cannot... you cannot condition me, Newton! I will not stand for this, this..." Hermann spluttered off into inarticulate rage.

"Awesomeness?" Newt spread his arms. At least, he spread them as far as they'd go while pinned. "Associations are awesome, dude. And you gotta admit, it did sorta work on yo—ow! Okay, okay!"

"I admit nothing." Hermann hissed. "But... but if you are serious," he stopped. Swallowed. Tried to stem the shaking that was starting up in his hands. Newt made to open his mouth and Hermann positively growled at him.

"If you are serious," he continued. "Then there should be cake." Newt blinked at him. "German chocolate. At least three layers." Hermann hesitated, lifting his chin high. "Decorate it."

"Yeeeeeah... okay, man. With, uh, what exactly?"

Hermann gave him another whack. "With something decent enough to make up for this insanity!"

"Yeah! Got it, got— STOP HITTING ME, DUDE."

Of course, this continued for some time. Students and TAs alike who'd fled in fear now dared to peek in through the half closed door.

"What's going on?" one whispered.

"... I think they're flirting."

The following Monday—after a rather nerve wracking weekend— Hermann arrived on campus to find a truly massive German chocolate cake sitting on the table. The sides had been smoothed with the traditional frosting, but the top was unique. Shreds of coconut had been painstakingly arranged to look like constellations.

Beside the cake was a note:

"FOR THE MATH/SPACE NOOB ONLY. ALL YOU OTHER PEASANTS— HANDS OFF!" It was followed by a winking caricature.

There was also Newt's cell number.

"I already have that, you ridiculous man." Hermann muttered. Still, he dialed while cutting himself a rather large slice of cake. It was, of course, delicious.

Newt picked up on the first ring.

Seven months later, Hermann was still grumbling.

"I can't believe you tried to condition me with food—"

"Dude, I DID condition you with food."

"—instead of simply asking me out like any normal person."

Newt paused to quirk an eyebrow. "You think I can be normal?"

"... Point taken."

Laughing he shoved another brownie into his boyfriend's mouth, only laughing harder when Hermann tried to bat him away.

"Just accept it. Food brought us together, Hermie. In, uh... more ways than one actually."

Now it was Hermann who froze. "Meaning?"

"The fire in the bio department? The one that brought us just a floor apart?" Newt grinned, kicking his feet under the table. "We had a really awful kitchenette there. I baked. Alllllll the time. Then one day I'm making a caramel sauce AND heating oil to fry some donuts, yea? Got called to the lab though, cool science things happening, blah blah, you get the idea." Newt shrugged.

Slowly, Hermann's head slid to rest in his palms. "You burned down the bio department," he breathed.

"Only for you, babe." Newt winked, kissed a brownie, then tossed it Hermann's way.

Baking made up for a lot.