Work Text:
The lab isn't at all crowded these days. Mega's remains have been stored away, Rippers' tech analysed to the best of their understanding, Fury's inner workings dissected and filed long ago. Now all Hermann's scientists could have been working on was helping plan the attack on the Anteverse, if it wasn't so thoroughly confidential. No wonder, because there is no concrete plan yet, only ambitions and ideas. Most of which were provided by him, and nobody but Hermann is eager to trust him just yet. But they did admit they need Newt's help, his knowledge, so that's something.
Newt likes working here. Not here as in the main lab area, but Hermann's office. The space is filled with soft dim light and gentle humming of machines, occasional peeps of programmes having run their course, so it's not completely quiet, which is great. Newt might have developed sedatephobia recently. Or it's trauma, or it's both, but what's the difference.
He's been 'himself' for months so yes he's been given autonomy, with an addition of his whereabouts being monitored, and sometimes watched over by literal guards. He can't help but snap at them sometimes, but that's built up frustration, he knows the precaution is as much for his safety. Plus, he is happy to experience strong emotions that aren't anguish that make him raise his voice and sass and flip people off. He shouldn't be enjoying it this much.
Did he say he was working here? Well obviously it's nothing biology related. His working boils down to putting the last 10 years of 'his' life in chronological order, making use of the notes and sketches recovered from his flat, writing down what he remembers, which on its own is a cause for great distress and frequent anxiety attacks. But Newt has to be helpful, he's doing better, he tries. He has to be helpful. They're running out of time.
His mind is free, but it's scattered. His body belongs to him, but so do his actions, past and present. His memory is shards of broken glass, sharp points drawing blood when he tries to pick them up. For a decade, he had been doing things that only a piece of him knew he was doing, and the other piece knew who ordered it, and the other knew what would follow if he went through with it. But these neurons were never connecting, they weren't allowed to. The net was vast, bigger and more complicated than any human of his century evolved his brain into, yet he was never allowed to see the whole picture. Not once in a dosen years he was a whole person, not once did he feel like himself, and he could never grasp what was wrong because it was pushed out of his reach every time.
Then came the jail, the confides. The loneliness, the immobility, the cold, the silence. Then they left him.
And he howled, cried for God to free him of his mind that has suddenly started coming together, shard by shard. He didn't want to be self-conscious again, screw that, he only wanted to float aimlessly in the blue of the drift, roar in place of sounds, white noise in place of thoughts. Instead, for days, all he could do was try to process what he did, what was done to him, now that he saw everything, understood everything. Memories swallowed him, and while some pieces added up, facts given to him, that didn't make sense in one instant just did, others just couldn't possibly fit. All the versions of his self..
There was a corrupted, warped, perverted person who got high on destruction and violence, who loved losing control of his body and letting it be steered cause it was so easy, who believed the world wronged him, underestimated him, that nobody ever loved him, wanted him, only considered him ill and little. There was a man who was tormented by memories and feelings not his, hurt by his own hand, who resisted, who tried to commit suicide, who screamed at the overlords untill he lost his voice, who couldn't get out of bed, who longed to lose himself in the drift cause he'd stop feeling. There was a fanatic, who embraced their reign, admitted Precursors' true right to this world, who was happy to serve, happy to die, who admired them because they were the perfect creatures, who felt like a rock star at last, because who else on this Earth held this much power and knowledge, who else could have been chosen by the most intelligent beings in the multiverse, who else could singe handedly destroy the world
No wonder this shit broke him. A bit clearheaded as Newt feels now, he's able to look back, and pats himself mentally on the shoulder. Fuck, he has no idea how he lived through this torture. But he did, and Hermann is proud of him.
Newt hunches in the chair, elbows on the table, hands sliding down his hair to the nape of his neck. He looks around the office, forcing the aggravating thoughts of the past to be replaced by passive observations of the present.
The cluster of papers and devices from when he first saw the space what feels like a lifetime ago is now organised into folders, shoved away into drawers and bins. It must have taken Hermann hours to clean the space, but he said it'd do wonders in helping Newt's task, as "neat workplace means neat headspace", "clean your space, clear your mind" etc etc ugh. He said the same stuff he used to grumble/shout his way for five years back in Hong Kong with an additional few colourful swears.
Newt registers Hermann entering the office before the man twists the knob. These footsteps are impossible to miss. Newt has lost concentration long ago, he realises, and it pushes a grunt out of him. He fists the pen in his hand, then puts it down on the table for fear of breaking something in discontent and having to explain himself to Hermann. Last thing he wants is another makeshift therapy session with the guy who's in dying need of a psychological counselling himself. Newt exhales. Inhales. Exhales.
He doesn't hear Hermann shuffling about in his papers, or gadgets, or whatever, doesn't see him going towards the main lab, but most importantly, he doesn't hear a "hello". Hermann is always ridiculously into formalities, and.. ah, well, he might no longer be hovewer. It's been way too many years, and the ghost drift and the neverending nightmares and then all this shit - the end of the world, Newt's captivity and withdrawal and recovery- Newt doesn't oftentimes recognise the man he used to know like the back of his hand at all. Who's to say Hermann's love for saluting isn't another small beautiful quirk Newt took away from his friend.
So Newton keeps silent and unmoving, struggls not to look tense, even though his heart races and he desperately wants to turn around and cry, "Hiii I haven't seen you for what, 2 hours? What's up," but that idea gets vigorously scratched away for being too needy, he doesn't want to be suffocating though hr probs already is.
Let this be a testament to your self control- his inner voice mocks him. It's as encouraging as it is goosebump inducing.
Hermann must be deep in thought, Newton ponders, must be standing in the middle of the room, holding papers with scribbles on them inches away from his face, brows furrowed, soon he'll snap out of it and put the glasses on, and sit at his table to continue looking through some data. Or maybe he's typing sms on his phone, or maybe he's spaced out, remembering why he came in, it does happen too.
Newt finds himself almost whispering aloud his wish for Hermann to finally do something that Newt's stupid brain will make sense of, to start doing his work, so that his presence would become a calming and anchoring factor as it always is, and Newt could go back to concentrating on his task. God knows concentration comes with an ungodly amount of willpower and breaking it is a matter of some mental picture flashing by or an uncarefully dropped word combination. His frustration with himself has no visible end, and last thing Newt wants is to vent it on Hermann (for the 10000th freaking time). But each second adds to his restlessness, like upping and upping temperature under a pan of oil. He is moments away from boiling when Hermann finally walks up to his table.
Newt looks up, smiles (it must look more like a grimace though), and greets him. Hermann does too, but goes straight to business.
"It's New Year's Eve, and I couldn't but remember the holiday tradition the Shatterdome stuff had during the war, of celebrating all birthdays of those born in a particular month on one day within said month, or in case of other big national or international holidays beeing held- as part of said holiday. I know we both considered the tradition decent and rational, even though it defines the ethic principle of not gifting presents before the day of birth. But in given conditions I suppose it's only logical not to delay with this pleasant formality, who knows what will happen tomorrow, and all that." Hermann stopps to take a deeper breath, blinks a few times, continues, "I guess same can be aplied to today, with a little difference of PPDC officers actualy having decent salary. So in light of the aforesaid.."
Hermann is looking quite awkward, with his left hand behind his back. His eyes have gone over every word in the papers on the table but didn't meet Newt's eyes once. Newt turns to him fully, still seated, and can't help a wide smile. Jesus, Hermann still looks and sounds so stupid when he makes up gigantic sentences that are impossible to catch meaning of for an untrained ear. Newt understood the general derection, Hermann said nothing that Newt didn't already know. So he doesn't get upset or panicked about not understanding speech as effortlessly as before (also nothing new), he sits still, looks up at Hermann who may or may not be getting red in the ears, and beams.
Untill his brain reminds him that he can't be feeling that small sparkling happiness over simple things. Scratch that, can't be feeling happy at all. The smile dissolves. He bows his head to quickly catch himself and not let the change in mood show. A different kind of smile appears. Anxiety seeps through his teeth as Newt speaks up,
"Hermann, you aren't trying to give me a present, are you? There's- there's nothing I want, I mean, dude, don't bother. It's totally fine, just a congratulation will work fine." You don't deserve a congratulation, you murdering son o-
"Yes, fine, still, the decision is up to me, don't you agree?"
Hermann has locked eyes with him, and his voice is suddenly no longer hesitant, but resolute and, scolding? It reminds Newt of the good old Hermann, of constant arguments, snapping and lectures. Before this mess, before Hermann started acting like they're both standing on thin ice whenever he gets close, and that it might come apart under their feet any second. That Newt might come apart any second. It pains him to see Hermann this cautious, it's not how things are supposed to be. He's supposed to help Hermann open up, loose the strings, feel free to speak his mind and not feel oppressed by anybody's opinion. He's supposed to be...
was supposed to be. It's all in the past now.
"Yeah okay," Newt briefly averts his eyes and Hermann clears his throat.
"As I was saying. Your birthday is in two weeks, and I believe there's no reason to wait that long to give you this." He extends a box the size of his hand, it's in a Christmas themed wrap, with goshdarn deers on it. Newt's frozen in place, he almost doesn't register Hermann carrying on talking. "I don't really need to say it's an incredibly useful device in everyday life, I decided you absolutely should have one. Another one, that is."
A few embarrassing seconds pass before Newt gets his shit together and makes his hands move. It still feels like he's dreaming, like it's not really happening to him. Most of last 2 months after he was freed feels like a dream.
don't deserve to be treated like
like a person? bullshit
tell him
give it back
it'd be rude!
you don't deserve it
don't open it
come on, stop halting midaction, you look like an imbecile
He tears through the wrapping carefully and slowly, hands moving on their own accord, while high pitched buzz in his head intensifies. Newt's throat closes up. He almost chokes on his own breath. Finally, his mind wraps around what he's holding in his hands. A white case. A bitten apple labelled touchscreen cellphone case.
"You understand, I hate to tell you this, but I'm obliged to," Hermann says, his voice flying through the pounding of Newt's heart. The physicist emits an irritated sign, and sounds like every word offends him. "No contact with outside world, there's no reception here anyway. But you can start new accounts in social networks. No revealing your true identity, obviously, but you always enjoyed goofing around with stupid nicknames so it won't be an issue, I believe."
Newt has surfaced enough to feel Hermann studying his reaction, gripping his cane quite too tight, getting those words out a little too quick, with a barely noticeable vibration, "There's wi-fi. I've already got it connected. I've also installed a piano and a few relaxing games, which you'll probably call lame and delete." He pauses for breath, and it suddenly hits Newt that he's rehearsed the speech.
"And there's a notebook in there. I've secured your right to this device, no one will try to take it for inspection. It's all yours."
Newt is silent. His gaze locked onto the white box, he hasn't looked up yet. Hermann feels like drowning.
"Sorry about the rules, I'd send the Rangers to hell, but these were the conditions."
Newt's hand flyes to cover a half of his face, and then there's this sound, might be a sob, might be a choked laugh, Hermann can't tell, he panics-
"Newton, is-?"
His drift partner's arms slip under his armpits and enclose him before he can blurt out an excuse or something as stupid. Newt's shaking, maybe with excitement, maybe with upcoming tears, but when he speaks the voice is coloured by a smile, unmistakably.
"ThankyouohmyGodthankyousomuch," he chatters, and chuckles, his grip so unyielding it keeps Hermann's ribcage from expanding. He leans the cane againts the table, and hugs Newt back.
The first few seconds Hermann's mind is running a mile a minute, turning over every possibility that this gift may do harm rather than good; thinking what he'd say if Newt was to push away and start apologising for jumping at him like that, for it's quite an invitation for traumatic flashbacks; worrying if the Rangers lied and the phone will get inspected regularly without them knowing; pondering whether he should ask if Newt wants him to bring a beverage and some sweets or a piece of cake from the holiday table few levels up, or if it'll only upset him because he can't be there and enjoy the festivities himself, can't forget about his issues with digestive system, and so on and so on and-
But then comes a moment when everything halts with a question: what does it matter right now, right here? Everything loses importance but this moment of safety and mutual appreciation. Hermann melts in Newt's arms, embracing him tighter, breathing in deeper as Newt's grip loosens a bit when he relaxes too. Hermann's chin ends up somewhere on Newt's neck, and Newt's nose digs into Hermann's pullover. Hermann senses the heat of his long exhale on his collarbone.
He suddenly realises this is it, this is that feeling. Happiness. Out of the blue, to be momentarily gone, short lived. But it's reachable. Apparently, after the waking nightmare their lives have turned into, happiness is still reachable.
"Daamn, dude," Newt breathes into his shoulder, "I would've been dead 10 times over if not for you." The warmth of his breath is doubling because of the wool of Hermann's clothing and now is almost burning his skin. He smiles wider at how down-to-earth this inconvenience is. How absurd is the fact they've gotten used to the base of their sculls itching sometimes, longing for drift connection; how dreams about people and places and worlds they've never actually seen make them wake up confused, panicked, crying, screaming- have become a norm, but the extensive warmth caused by such proximity instantly draws Hermann's attention? He can't suppress a chuckle. He might as well tear up, what has become of their lives.
"Just. Everything you've done for me. Thank you will never cut it, man," comes a quiet slow mumble that Hermann feels vibrating through his upper body.
Right now, he doesn't want to dwell on all the ways he is to blame for everything that's been happening to Newt, his mind is too tired of blame and regret, fed up with running in this hamster wheel. He's too lazy to come up with a response, and right here and now he feels he finally deserves to be lazy. Maybe he finally deserves to let the guilt go too. Hermann smiles and hugs Newt tighter.