Archive of Our Own

It’s surprising, what the body prioritizes in times of stress; as a biologist, he’s studied such things inside and out, but it’s different, experiencing it rather than reading it from a textbook during a dry lecture course he could teach in his sleep. It’s visceral, real, and while he knows he should be hurting, he’s mentally aware that things aren’t right, that he’s injured, that he needs to seek medical attention because shit is jacked up, man, it’s… in the background. There are more important things to worry about, more important people to save, and so he uses his body’s reactions to his advantage and hides behind the anesthetic curtain of adrenaline and fight or flight for as long as he can, masking his own pain receptors from himself.

And once that’s over, once he’s been rushed to and fro, once everything is done for and the rescue pods have been pulled in, there’s still more to deal with. There are kaiju parts that need to be documented, memorials that need to be organized, paperwork that need to be filled out, and there’s no time for anything as needless as hospital visits and proper medical attention. He’s focused, laser pointed, solving issue after issue with no need for food or sleep, and it’s only when Gottleib sits him down and forces him to hold a glass of water that he realizes he can’t. 

His hand is shaking so much liquid spills over the edge of the glass, and its with a serious, almost worried expression that Gottlieb takes the cup from him and asks, quietly, “Newton, are you alright?”

Of course, as if to prove to the other man, no, I’m not, I’m insane, wrap me up and cart me away, he begins to laugh. High and repetitive, a sound of fear, hysterical, and his hands shake so much he can’t hold a glass. 

The pain hits, then. 

Everything hurts, from the tips of his hair down to every last broken, unmanaged toenail. It’s all encompassing, and he chokes, giving a full body shudder as tears begin to spill from his undamaged eye, the salt creating its own burn as it traces a path down the cuts across his cheek. 

He shakes his head, but he can’t force words from his mouth. His throat aches, coated as it is in the dust and ammonia laden air of Hong Kong, the heavy taste of iron and alkali a thick film over his tongue. 

He hurts, and it’s with an air of desperate, almost terrified abandon that he reaches forward, seizing Gottlieb’s shirt in one trembling hand, yanking him close as he rests his head against the man’s chest. He hides his eyes from the light, the bar of his cracked and crooked glasses pressing uncomfortably against the bridge of his nose, and he lets the other touch the back of his head softly, his voice soothing as it asks him worried question after worried question. 

Then there are hands touching him, and he flails, panicked, cold fingers reminding him only of Otachi’s tongue, but then Hermann speaks again and everything goes dull, for a while. 

…When he wakes up, he’s been unconscious for three days. The nurses are silent as Hermann explains, with clipped, angry tones, the extent of his injuries and the damage he’d caused himself. 

A cracked rib and three broken bones in his hand, both injuries he vaguely remembers sustaining from being shoved into a car by a panicked Chinese civilian. The cuts and bruises he’d sustained at the hands- or, rather- tongue of Otachi, and the burns from droplets of toxic saliva. The wrenched knee, the sprained ankle, the mild concussion… all of the tiny contusions and lacerations, once so pointless to him, so minor, now laid out in full detail by that ever even, clipped, angry voice. 

And then Hermann touches his face, places a cool hand to his cheek, and says, “If you weren’t injured, I would slap you,” and he can’t stop his giggling despite the pain flaring up in his ribs. 

“We’re both idiots,” he says, hoarsely, coughing up dust as he would for the next week, and Hermann floofs himself up in that desperate, falsely brave way of his and says, “You’re the only idiot in the room, Newton.”

They argue, and it’s familiar, hauntingly so, because now everything is different even if they don’t want to acknowledge it. Everything is different, but, as Hermann wraps an arm around his shoulders and steadies him as he drinks, clean water washing the taste of brick and death from his mouth, he wonders if, perhaps, change is really such a bad thing, despite evidence proving it so. 

It’s interesting, what the body can ignore in times of stress, and doubly interesting what the body can bring to the spotlight  once the stress is removed from the picture. With the looming threat of death brushed aside by glorious, victorious Jaeger pilots, he has the opportunity to focus on things he’d been desperately avoiding. 

His injuries were only one of those things, but as he recovers, and they are removed from the pool of resources needing his attention, he finds himself drawn to other things.

And he feels a different kind of pain. 

His chest aches, and for days, he thinks that the dust of the city must have made him ill. He coughs and hacks and drinks as much water as he can, but the feeling doesn’t go away, buried somewhere between his lungs, deep and hard to reach, an itch that can’t be scratched. 

Hermann. 

Fucking Hermann Gottleib, the very itch he is incapable of doing anything about, niggling away at the back of his mind and hurting oh so sweetly because, as the physical pain fades and he has more attention to focus on other things besides recovery, he realizes that Hermann is a constant, in all things. 

He’s there, always, hanging in the background, helping him when he needs it, usually silent but sometimes condescending, rude, perfect, and he can’t stop thinking about Hermann. 

And finally, after thinking, and thinking, and driving himself mad, he reaches out and kisses the man, and everything stops. 

It’s startling, what the body fixates on in times of stress, because here he is, with his lips pressed to Hermann’s, and all he can feel is the scratchy wool of the other man’s sweater pressed against his hands, the texture annoying and coarse under his fingertips. The warmth of Hermann’s lips, the sweep of Hermann’s tongue, the harsh, needy way Hermann kisses, it’s all nothing compared to the itchy prickling of the wool of his sweater, and he pulls away after a moment, too busy laughing to continue. 

His rib is healed, so the pain in his side is only from the harsh jab of the other’s pointy elbow, but still, despite it, he cannot silence himself. 

And then Hermann starts laughing as well, a discordant, almost jarring noise for all its rarity, and he clings to the other man, hands wrapped around his shoulders, face pressed against the warm shelter of his chest, and when Hermann brings his clammy ahdsn up to press against his back, holding him close, he cries. 

He’ll never admit it, not under threat or pain of death, but he cries, trembling hard, for a long time, Hermann shushing him quietly, holding him as he releases weeks of built up terror and pain and desperate hopelessness. And it’s over.

It’s over. 

The war is over, the fight is over, the struggle is over, and now, with nothing left to focus on, he just has himself and his emotions, and it… they…

“I love you.”

And Hermann, fucking Hermann Gottleib, holds him close, pressing his head to his thin chest with one trembling hand, and says. “I love you,” right back. 

And everything is right.