Chapter Text
The walk did Newt well, refreshed and with his head out of his ass. It’s not perfect, there’s no being fine — he found out that the man he thought was the love of his life has been in love with another for even longer. Even if he was alright, no one would believe him, not even himself.
But that’s not important. Right now, he’s got an agenda. He’s going to thank Gally, and Gally is going to accept his thanks.
Fuck knows where Newt would be right now if Gally hadn’t let him stay. Probably would have let himself get woven right back into the life with Thomas, because it was comfortable and easy and what he’d known for the past seven years. Would have spent two days in a dusty hotel in his own tears watching reruns of Chopped until he drove back and apologized for getting upset. Listened to Thomas as he apologized in that expert way he always does.
Just because Newt could have doesn’t mean it would have been right.
So, Newt is determined to thank Gally and have him not dismiss it. Newt is certainly not Frypan, but he can cook. Better than Gally, anyway, which is a low bar, but Newt would like to think he leaps over it rather than stumbles. This is the least he can do, especially after vomiting out all the food Gally made for him that second day.
It’s not anything too complicated because, admittedly, Newt’s stomach is still a little upset from the day prior. It’s also not too complicated because, well, Gally’s never been all that complicated. Not when it comes to things like this. When it came to birthdays in college, between big bashes with drinking themes or a simple kickback with a firepit and a BYOB invite, Gally picked the latter every time.
That’s why Newt decided on the meal he did: Grilled cheese sandwiches and homemade tomato soup. Maybe a little childish, but, the Gally he grew up with would appreciate the gesture. He was going to ask if Gally would like that for dinner, but, he didn’t come home at his normal time.
In fact, Gally’s a lot later than Newt expected. Which, for most people — at least for Thomas — didn’t really mean anything. Could’ve been anything from got a cup of coffee with a friend to mind-numbing traffic, or, Newt supposes, a phone call with his girl on the other side of the world. But for Gally to break routine by even a half an hour, he may as well be declared Missing in Action.
Except Newt doesn’t want to hover. He’s the one who’s intruded into Gally’s life. Maybe he’s changed. Maybe he ran into a friend. So, he keeps his mouth shut and his fingers off his phone. That way, he also doesn’t have to see the three new messages from Thomas.
He throws himself into cooking. Making a base for the soup and finding all of Gally’s kitchen tools. He’s got more than he expected. While Gally showed up to college with a full tool-kit with multiple levels, he had only brought one egg-pan and spatula, and a host of paper plates. Now he’s got an immersion blender and a rice cooker and most things anyone would want. However, they are a bit dusty in their cupboards.
Not that it surprises Newt that Gally doesn’t use them. He probably got them as gifts, or for a single recipe he tried to make, and then never tried using them again. Newt pulls out the immersion blender and cleans it off, makes sure everything is working, and gets started on dinner.
It ends up being a good thing Newt got things started. Gally comes back wound tight, emotional in a way he rarely is and barely conceals, his jaw a locked steel trap. Newt watches as he chucks his bag into a chair and kicks off his shoes as if he had targets he was trying to smash. He rubs the back of his neck, but not how Thomas used to soothe himself — it’s more like Gally’s trying to dig into his nape with his nails and rip out his own spine.
“Welcome home,” Newt says.
Gally stops. Drops his hand from the back of his neck and stares into the closet for a moment. Newt can watch the color drain from his face.
Newt stops chopping the tomatoes. Sets down the knife and comes out from the kitchen.
“Gally? You alright, mate?”
Gally’s just standing there, tapping into his leg like he’s counting his fingers. He takes a deep breath. Then his shoulders collapse like a dropped bridge, and he settles into a more relaxed position.
“Sorry. Long day.”
The way Gally can reset himself now. Newt supposes it’s a good thing, but he’d never seen him do that before.
“Don’t be sorry.” Newt walks back into the kitchen, determined not to make whatever that was a bigger moment than it needs to be. Picks up his knife and starts cutting the tomato again. “Figured you had a doozy of a day. You’re nearly an hour and a half later than I expected.”
“Shit.” The word comes out forceful and angry, scolding himself, which has Newt frowning. “I had an appointment. Sorry ‘bout that.”
“Still don’t need to be sorry.” At the fact that he had an appointment Newt can’t help but feel a little itchy. It’d be one thing if he was just coming in late from work — Newt knows the stressors of a long day, he’s a teacher for God’s sakes — but for Gally to be this fried after an appointment, Newt can’t help but worry something’s wrong. What kind of appointment? With who?
What did Frypan say? You have more common ground than you think? What was he alluding to? There’s this weird energy that’s been emanating from Gally since the beginning, since Newt first showed up in the night. He’d thought it was just the strangeness of his own situation buzzing and reverberating and screwing with Gally’s reactions, but maybe it’s more. Maybe it’s worse.
Gally must read something on Newt’s face, because he raises his hand up. “Not like that. Nothing… Nothing like that for me,” he mutters. “Don’t worry. I’m fine.”
It’s not exactly convincing and Gally knows. He flinches, goes back to trying to dig into his skin, this time burning tracks through the back of his head. He drops his reddened hands.
“I’m seeing a therapist.”
That was not the admission Newt was expecting.
In fact, he’d never have guessed that if every option in the world was laid in front of him and he’d had unlimited guesses. He would have given up before guessing. But now that Gally says it, all these abilities to reposition himself in a situation that he’s earned, all his new social mechanisms, it makes sense.
Still, Newt can’t keep his shock entirely at bay. Gally never crapped on the uses of therapy, he used to walk Newt to his counseling appointments in college sometimes, but he never seemed inclined to go himself. Newt would nudge him to try it out once, especially after his dad died, but Gally refused. He Gally explained that he was more the “put all his feelings into a box and shove it in a crevice of his mind” kind of guy. Then use those boxes to propel workouts or wrestling or rugby later, get it out in action where he can shout and push and be all edges without getting in trouble for cutting down others in his path. To sit down and talk about whatever’s bothering him never seemed his style.
Not that it’s a bad thing. It’s not a bad thing at all, but Newt realizes that the way he’s responding to the words might make Gally think it is. He gets a stern look on his face, daring Newt to make some comment about his own surprise. Something Thomas would do in a heartbeat, but Newt never picked that up from him. For things like this, Newt knows how to think before he says something stupid.
He sets the blade down to give Gally his full attention, even if does shine a spotlight on a subject he clearly’s trying to skate through. This isn’t a big deal, but it’s not nothing either.
“You want to talk about it?”
“No.”
Newt did expect that.
“Okay,” Newt says. “Let me know if that changes.”
Instead of acknowledging Newt’s offer, Gally forcibly changes subjects, coming around the corner and into the kitchen and asking, “What’s all this?”
“All this.” Newt gestures to the very modest grilled cheese and tomato soup station he’s made. “Is dinner.”
“You don’t have to do that.” Gally reaches over toward the stove and Newt slaps his hand away.
“But I want to. You’ve been letting me stay here —“
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“But I want to.”
Gally sighs. “Aren’t we friends?” The way Gally speaks has the hair rising on Newt’s arms; he says it like he’s not sure, like he doesn’t know after all this time, but also that tone he gets when he's a bit pissed off. “This is what friends do.”
“Of course we’re friends.” Newt’s voice is thick and he clears his throat to try to gloss over it. The last thing he wants are his emotions to completely unspool out of control.
They are friends, not that Newt’s put any effort in these past years. He should have came here a long time ago. Insisted Gally come visit them in Seattle. Met somewhere halfway. Instead he opted not to see Gally, blinded by all the stupid little day-to-day things that he let overwhelm him into remaining stagnant. Instead, he let a friendship he’s relied on since he was a child erode as the days ticked by and he didn’t even call.
All be damned, that is changing.
Newt slaps the blade of the knife on the cutting board, flexes his fingers as he lets go. He turns to face Gally, fixing him with a watery smile. “Friends let each other know how much they appreciate them.” Gally’s staring him with pinprick pupils, as if this is all coming as a shock. Newt shakes his head. “Quit looking at me like I’ve roped in the moon for you, it is just grilled cheese.”
A faint smile twitches up the corner of Gally’s mouth and he ducks his face. He jabs at the pot on the stove with his thumb. “And tomato soup.”
“And tomato soup. Actually yes, you should be treating me like a god for that.”
Gally snorts and Newt chuckles. It seems Gally is relenting. Newt grins in his victory.
“Any way I can help?”
“The last thing I need is for you to be near any appliance.” That makes Gally snicker outright and he backs up, palms out in defense. It’s not the first time he’s heard that. Frypan has officially banned him from any meal that requires a flame ever since the grilling incident. “Go… do whatever you need to do. Whatever you’d usually do. I’ve been kind of taking up your last few nights, so, do whatever you want.”
“I haven’t minded.” Gally exhales slow, placing his hands on his hips. “Suppose there’s some work I could catch up on. I’ll set up in here, though. My desk is… a mess.“
“Sounds good to me.” Newt grins. Grabs another tomato and spins it on his fingertips before plopping it on the cutting board and getting ready to chop. “I’ll be here.”
Gally’s gaze drifts to the pot on the stove, to the bread and cheese that Newt’s got lined up before the pan on the burner that isn’t lit yet. He huffs a stunted laugh.
“Thanks Newt. It’s… been a while.”
Newt smiles, but the muscles of his mouth fight the feeling. Gally’s tone swirls around Newt’s chest like a frosted wind, graying and cutting. He swallows the feeling down.
“Well, don’t get your hopes up too high,” Newt says, turning his attention to the meal at hand. “I’m certainly no Frypan.”
Gally starts to walk away, but he claps his hand on the door frame, his fingers strumming against the wood. He hangs his head for a moment before doubling back.
“You’re the first person I’ve told that I’ve been going to therapy.”
The intensity of Gally’s tone could crack stone. As if he's gearing himself up for some sort of quip, some kind of counter. Newt’s not going to give it to him. This time, Newt does not stop what he's doing, keeping the conversation casual and calm. It’s not a bad thing that Gally's seeing a therapist unless he thinks it is, in which, that’s a conversation Gally’s got to start — not Newt.
“Though I imagine Fry already knows," Gally adds on when Newt doesn't say anything.
Newt is curious about that, but he also is aware Frypan knows Gally well enough that Gally might just assume Frypan would know everything without ever asking. That would be very Frypan. Newt's good with people, but Frypan's got a heart that just knows people the moment he meets them. He's never been wrong about anyone in his life.
Unfortunately, that both makes Newt laugh and want to cry a little. When he met Thomas, all Frypan did was smile and say, "that boy's trouble."
Newt flinches at his own stupid derailing thoughts — he is sick to death of Thomas appearing out of nowhere like some miserable little haunting, Newt's world does not revolve around him for fuck's sake — and instead scrapes his knife against the cutting board and scrapes all the diced tomatoes into the pot. Then he looks over to Gally.
“Is it helping?”
Gally's eyebrows come together, like he'd never considered the question before.
“I don’t know.” He breathes slow, his knuckles rolling as he curls his fingers in and relaxes them. Then he says, “It isn’t hurting.”
He takes a step away and makes a little laughing sound. A bitter laugh, but not entirely mirthless.
"But goddamn do I hate when she's right."