Chapter Text
From like, a professional, adult standpoint, Newt will admit there’s a whole lot of benefits to being a marine biologist. Good pay, good insurance, relatively high number of job openings, overall, very responsible, adult person job. Yay him. He just wishes it wasn’t so damn boring.
He’s stuck on this stupid ship for another week along the rim of the pacific ocean, and the last 5 months and change have been the most boring of his life. Nothing is happening. Nothing. He hasn’t even been filling out his reports this last month, just copying and pasting from earlier with a few changes in dates, and you know what? He got praised for his increased work ethic.
The point Newt is making is that he was in a delicate state of mind when he saw the meteor. Easily suggestible. Open to doing things, that if he had actually thought about them for a few seconds, he might have realized were.. Less than intelligent. Dumbass, you might put it.
Newt is outside, late enough at night that most everyone else on the research vessel is asleep except for him.
Lately, his mind hasn’t been able to shut down. It’s just so boring.
So of course when he sees the shooting star, he wishes for something interesting to happen. In his defense, he wasn’t expecting it to turn, actually turn in a flare of light, and crash right into him.
Well, not right into him, but close enough as it slams into the ocean that a spray of water splashes over the railing, and Newt spends a few seconds sputtering, and then moves closer, craning his neck to look at whatever it is. It’s floating to start with, unique, and Newt is already thinking about research papers and awards when.
It moves. It moves, holy fucking shit, it moves, a smooth black oil slick twisting up toward Newt’s sharp intake of breath, what Newt thinks is an eye focusing directly at him and oh god, he’s going to get laser zapped to death or something, except no, no? The- the tentacle flutters in the water, moving, and Newt thinks that it’s sinking maybe, interspersed with distracting thoughts of tentacle porn he staunchly tries to ignore, because that’s alien life. This is a real, undebatable alien lifeform like nothing Earth has ever interacted with, staunchly non-humanoid and crash landed in front of him, sentient by the way it moves. Alien life.
And- oh shit, and it’s sinking, and if Newt doesn’t do anything, it’s going to drown right in front of him. So, after about two seconds of consideration, he jumps in.
And after another two seconds, he remembers he also can’t swim. Whoops.
He flails for a minute, trying to get to the lifeform, and manages to just brush the edge with his fingertips, though he’s got no idea what he’s going to do then. Except apparently that’s not going to be an issue, because the black goo moves up his hand, curling around his arm, surprisingly warm, faintly slippery though Newt doesn’t know if that’s from the saltwater or just some inherent wetness, and, oh god, he really cannot be thinking about this while making first contact with an alien, well, more like the alien is making first contact with him, and speaking of,
“Whoa there, buddy! Uh, not that I’m not into it, cuz like- no, no I can’t- what is wrong with me, uh.” Whatever he might say next is cut off by him sinking beneath the waves, and for a few moments, there’s just sheer panic before tentacles yank him back up and he gasps for air. He knows he shouldn’t anthropomorphize, that body language varies so much any assumption will only ruin further communication, but he’s still pretty sure the look that the alien gives him is one of utter disgust and disapproval. Rude.
It- he- they? They’re wrapped around his lower half and abdomen entirely now, buoyant in the waves, warm and almost soothing, closer to a weighted blanket than- anything else, and Newt is unfortunately and embarrassingly very grateful of that fact.
The alien pulls away at his chest, looking at him, rippling until it makes a rough approximation of a head and shoulders, chest disappearing into Newt’s own. It looks at him curiously, and Newt offers a nervous grin.
“Uh. Hi?”
It looks him over, shrugs with an expression that Newt thinks might be resignation, and.
Kisses him. Like, full on, tongue in mouth kissing, and the monsterfucker in Newt has time to crow with delight, wonder what exactly those things on its tongue are and how they might feel- and then black goo is pouring down his throat and he’s gasping for air, gagging, and okay, no, not sexy anymore, this is just terrifying, and Newt tries to scream, but there's goo in his
throat and in his nose and then his ears and now his mind is running through precisely how idiotic it was to do this, how amazingly stupid, there’s protocol for a reason, seriously-
“Wuhhh…”
It's a soft noise, but it’s in Newt’s head, not a thought, and he can breathe again, desperately inhaling sweet oxygen, as the voice, as the oh god he thinks the alien speaks again.
“Whaaat?”
And then, with a crisp, clear British accent, it says, “what the bloody hell is wrong with you?”
Newt nearly throws up. It’s all too much, and there’s still a tentacle taste in his mouth, and when he looks down, there’s a raft of tentacles growing out of his knees, and there’s an alien in his head who is apparently British.
“What the fuck, dude,” he says hoarsely. Something twitches against the inside of his skull and Newt again resists the urge to vomit.
“You..chose this? Why? You knew not to, and did it anyway?”
“An alien is questioning my life choices.” Newt’s lost it. Maybe that’s it. He’s just started hallucinating, or, or something.
“An alien is questioning-”
“Your life choices, yes. You said. Have you considered that from my perspective, the same is happening?”
Of course Newt’s monsterfucker monster would be a pedantic asshole. Par for the course, really. He shouldn’t even be surprised. He isn’t. He’s just cold, mostly, shaking with the night air on his soaked clothing, slime splattered across his skin. He kinda wants to kiss it again, without the whole goo possession. He kinda wants to go take a blisteringly hot shower that includes the inside of his skull and scream until he can’t anymore.
“You disliked that.”
“Uh. Yeah. I get we probably have different cultural norms, or whatever, but like, maybe warn a guy next time? Went from scared and horny to just scared, ha.”
Why would he say that? What is wrong with him? Asshole hentai alien has a point.
“Understood. I will make certain you are horny as well as scared in the future.”
Oh. Huh. Newt processes that one for a while, but any fantasies are jarred away with how cold he is. That would be just his luck, to get hypothermia in the water ten minutes after first contact with an alien lifeform.
As though it can hear him, the goo under his knees surges, and then, making a noise Newt can only describe as glorp, Newt is standing and staggering on the deck of the ship. No one even notices. They’re all asleep. Apparently. Newt’s had at least three different crises in the last ten minutes, and no one has noticed at all. Even though he doesn't actually want anyone to know, because how the hell is he supposed to explain this, right, he can’t help but feel a little annoyed.
“Narcissism,” it says, and Newt smacks the side of his own head before he can consider exactly what he’s doing, but seriously?
“Asshole.”
“I am not in possession of an asshole currently, unless you are referring to yourself.”
“Seriously? Did you really just- oh my god, you jerk.”
Newt’s mouth makes a little noise without his own intention, and he belatedly realizes that was the alien in his head stifling a laugh. With his own throat. Newt very carefully phrases this in his head as something that is very cool and interesting, and not absolutely terrifying.
“Okay. Well, uh. We. Can we talk about this? Not here. I need to sit down.”
He stumbles to his quarters, and pointedly locks the door, sagging onto his bed. He’s not sopping wet anymore, he notices, and looks down to see a thin black tentacle sliding up his arms, leaving dry skin behind it. Newt gapes for a second, before finally just deciding to accept it. Just let it be something that happens now.
“So. Uhh. You have a name? Mine’s Newt. Well, Newton, but just call me Newt, everyone but my mom does.”
“Newton…”
It speaks slowly, sibilant, leaning on each syllable, and Newt swallows.
“Just Newt.”
The image of a newt, of the lizard variety, flashes through his head, and then the image of Isaac Newton, from what Newt thinks is one of his college’s textbooks.
“Newton.”
He shakes his head.
“Okay, man. Whatever you say.”
There is a quiet then, but not an uncomfortable one. Newt lets it linger, but finally can’t resist.
“Seriously dude, what’s your name?”
A soft sigh, and when it speaks, its voice is rapturous.
“Gottlieb.”
“What?”
“After the great mathematician Gottfried Liebnitz? The inventor of calculus?”
“What,” Newt says again, “No he wasn’t, Newton was. Isaac, I mean.”
“Wrong.”
Newt blinks, then glares.
“Who’s the guy from Earth here? Who is it? Cuz it sure as hell isn’t you.”
“Precisely. Your closeness to the matter blinds you.”
Newt can feel the smugness radiating out from Gottlieb. This is ridiculous.
“That’s not how it works! You named yourself after him, you’re overly invested or whatever!”
“You’re named for Newton too. Hypocrite.”
Newt sputters out “Yeah, but- I didn’t choose the name like you did! For me it’s, like, a cool fitting thing, you’re just a- a kinnie.”
“A what.”
“Uh.” Newt opens his mouth, and closes it again, trying to figure out how he’s going to explain the concept of kinning to an alien lifeform. Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, it’s in his head, sifting through his memories with what Newt labels an inappropriate and unnecessary amount of judgement.
“Ah. I understand. How you feel about Fox Mulder?”
“What? No- no, no way, that isn’t- that’s a crush, I had a crush on him, okay, maybe still do, but I didn’t- I don’t- I didn’t name myself after my crush, you did, you. You.”
The alien is silent, digesting that, and wow, whoops, Newt needs to not use that kind of figurative language with something with that many teeth, whoo boy, the terror is back.
“I don’t… kin Gottfried Leibnitz.”
It sounds sullen, rather than murderous, and Newt thinks again about the absurdity of this scenario.
“Sure, okay. Keep telling yourself that. You got a first name?”
At the silent query prodded in his brain, he clarifies.
“Gottlieb is more of a last name.”
“Newton is more of a last name”, it snipes back, and Newt smacks his shoulder where a tentacle is curling out, immediately causing it to retreat.
“Newton is a cool first name, cool name period, not like Gottlieb.”
“What does the approximate temperature have to do with names?”
It’s said genuinely enough that Newt starts to try and phrase his explanation, when he feels a flicker of satisfied amusement, and realizes Gottlieb is just fucking with him.
“Jerk,” he mutters, swatting at another curling tendril that keeps trying to trace along his tattoos.
“I mean a cool name, like, I dunno, Carnage, Venom, something cool. Scary.”
“Posturing, you mean.”
Gottlieb flicks a set of memories at him, a truck with lifted tires revving its engine loudly, exhaust spraying in Newt’s face and Newt yelling after it about assholes with tiny dicks.
It’s honestly pretty funny, and Newt feels Gottlieb’s enjoyment of the joke landing. It’s.. nice. Weirdly nice, like a feedback loop of laughter. A tentacle slides along his arm, coiling down it, and Newt leans into it, smiling a bit.
“So you’re saying you don’t need to do any of that, because you’re just so badass no one would try questioning it?”
“Yes.”
“Hot.”
There is a longer pause this time, and then, in a pleased voice,
“Yes.”
Newt snickers, and flexes his bicep, just a bit, so the tendril can curl closer. He means to ask it more questions, but there’s a cold feeling in his skull for a moment, and all of a sudden, he can barely keep his eyes open, body drooping. A long sheet of alien wraps around his lower half, like a prewarmed, slightly slippery weighted blanket.
“Hang on,” Newt slurs, head heavy. “Are- are you messing with my brain? My… neurochemicals… mm.. Hey! Not cool.”
Gottlieb sniffs haughtily, which would be rude even if he wasn’t using Newt’s nose to do it.
“ I simply expedited your eventual adrenaline crash.”
With that, there’s more coldness in Newt’s head and before he can protest, he’s out cold.
But not entirely.
He opens his eyes to find a world of shifting blue light and black shine. He’s dreaming, he knows he’s dreaming, but it’s not quite lucid. He’s not in control of this. He can guess who it is.
“Gottlieb?”
The noise echoes out, bouncing out and around, vibrating in Newt’s bones and curling in his skin, and it's not just the noise, more exploratory tendrils tracing his skin. He bats away a few of them, still looking around.
“Cmon, man, this isn't funny. Where are you?”
“Here.”
Newt whips his head around, but there’s nothing there.
“Where?”
“Heeeere. Here. Here.”
Echoing and reverberating, humming and singing against light, noise scraping against his eyes, louder, louder, and Newt falls to his knees as it gets to be too much, more tendrils reaching around him, caressing him.
“No,” he says shakily. “No, don’t like that, stop it. Gottlieb? Stop it.”
The laugh isn’t human. Isn’t pretending to be human. He’d read once that smiling at chimpanzees was a sign of aggression, of warning to attack. This is the equivalent as a laugh, rough and dark and murderous, already tasting your blood.
“Not Gottlieb,” it whispers, and then Newt wakes up, shaking.