Chapter Text
Cambridge in spring is colder than Hong Kong in January. But Hermann quite likes it. He’s taken a house with a pleasant little sitting room with a fireplace, and on wintry nights when his joints ache, he can sit before the fire with a hot drink at hand and his work in his lap, and whatever is going on outside can’t touch him.
It’s strange to be back in England after so many years overseas, in a succession of foreign countries where, more often than not, he didn’t even speak the local language. It should be a relief. The war is over. He can relax.
He’s glad to be back in academia, really he is. He loves teaching and he does it well, and the university has been flatteringly ingratiating in their efforts to draw him back in. They do, after all, have quite a lot to gain from having a war hero in the physics department.
Hermann does not particularly feel like any sort of hero, and he is certainly not a soldier, but he can’t help but be…aware of the differences between himself and those around him. No one here has any frame of reference for the things he’s seen. And that is unequivocally good; he’s glad there are people in the world who haven’t had to look the apocalypse in the eye, who have seen it only from a distance and come out with far fewer scars than those who spent the last decade in the thick of it. Because there are still normal people living normal lives, he’s had something to come back to since the war’s end.
But reintegrating has not been quite the simple matter he might once have imagined. There are times when Hermann thinks fondly of his lab in Hong Kong. When he misses having someone to talk to. When he misses…well. Never mind all that. He’s here now, at peace with the world and quite comfortable by the fire.
Hermann doesn’t sleep well; he never has, and wartime habits are hard to break. Wartime nightmares are hard to shake. So it’s no wonder that he dozes off. He often does, in this comfortable chair, when his sleepless nights catch up with him.
And he dreams of Newton, which is something of a relief. When he dreams of Newton, he is not dreaming of the kaiju or, worse, their masters. Instead, he dreams of late nights in the laboratory, the thrill of discovery, that sense of accomplishment that comes not of teaching, but of doing.
Those scenes are interspersed with flashes of the same old nightmares. A dangerous scientific venture gone wrong (Newton seizing on the floor, bloody and lifeless), running (it’s after me, it’s looking for me), a desperate pursuit through the city, but there is an endpoint, there is safety, if only he can find his other half.
Hermann never thinks of such things consciously, but in sleep, the barriers come down.
He wakes, alone and confused, and cold despite the fire’s warmth. His papers have fallen from his lap to scatter across the floor. He blinks down at them, too sleep-fogged and clumsy to even think of picking them up. He’s so tired. He’s…cold. Why is he cold?
After a moment, he becomes aware of the sounds of the outside world. Cars on a wet road. Distant voices. Wind, and softly falling snow.
He turns toward the window. His curtains billow inward as the snow blows into the room.
The window is open. Hermann never opens that window. He reaches for his cane, only to miss his mark and knock it to the floor.
There’s a scuffling sound from over by the window, like mice in the walls, perhaps. And then a whisper of, “Hermann?”
“Who’s there?” Hermann asks. Who would come to his house, try to climb through the window instead of knocking at the door, hide the moment they attract his attention—
It’s Newton, obviously. Dr. Geiszler is the single most dramatic man Hermann has ever met. Of course he would do this without phoning ahead.
On the other hand, Hermann knows him well enough to know that Newton would never come to him like this, all the way from the States, turning up unannounced in the middle of the night, if he weren’t in some kind of trouble. If he’s here, it’s because he needs help.
Hermann hefts himself out of the chair, electing to cross the short distance to the window without his cane rather than taking the time to bend down and retrieve it. His hip protests, but then, when does it not?
“Newton?” Hermann says, voice still thick from sleep. He leans out the window, both hands on the sill. “Where are you?” There are footprints leading up to the house, already filling in as the snow drifts down, and a deeper impression just under the window. But no Newton.
“Don’t freak out.”
The voice comes from behind him. Hermann spins around, gasping, overbalances and nearly falls. The room is empty.
“Where—” he begins, uneasiness settling in the pit of his stomach. “What…have you done?”
“I fucked up.” Newton’s voice is uncharacteristically meek. He can’t pinpoint its location. “Hermann, you gotta help me, I fucked up bad this time, please—”
“Of course I’m going to help you, don’t be daft. Whatever’s happened, we’ll deal with it together. Now, stop all this nonsense and come out where I can see you.”
“Ha! Wish I could, dude.” Newton giggles helplessly for a second. Then—
Then, Hermann’s cane lifts off the floor and floats toward him, seemingly of its own accord.
Hermann would like to say that he’s unfazed by any of the unusual things that happen around his old partner. He’s grown accustomed to the unexpected. But at this, he can’t help crying out in surprise and staggering back. He reaches for something to steady himself, finds nothing, and falls against the wall.
“Whoa, hey! Take it easy, Hermann.” Something grips him below the elbow before he can continue his pinball journey to the floor, and the cane inserts itself into his hand.
“Newton?” He can’t see him, but there are—hands, invisible hands holding him up, helping him find his balance. His sleeve is crumpled, held tight against his arm by nothing.
Hermann reaches into the empty air in front of him. His fingers hit something solid. Soft, but not without definition. The familiar shape of human pectoral muscles. His hand is on Newton’s chest.
“I’m sorry,” Newton says. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, I just—I’m gonna get real cliché here, but I didn’t know where else to go.”
“Newton, you’re…”
“Invisible, yeah,” Newton finishes.
“You’re naked.” And his hand is still on Newton’s bare chest, but he can’t bring himself to remove it and risk losing track of him.
“Uh, y-yeah, well, sorry about that, but people flip the fuck out if they see jeans and a hoodie walking around with no one in them—“
“You’ve been out in the snow, you stupid man! You must be frozen through. Come on, move.” He ushers Newton over closer to the fireplace, thankful that the damn fool doesn’t put up an argument for once. He could be eaten up with frostbite; Hermann has no way of checking. What was he thinking, running around in the nude? He could have lost consciousness and frozen to death out there in the snow, and no one ever would have known to help him!
There’s an old blanket tossed over the arm of Hermann’s chair, far too light to do much good at a time like this, but it’s certainly better than nothing. He does his best to drape it around Newton’s shoulders, and tries not to be too disoriented when it readjusts itself before his eyes.
At least, with the blanket hanging in midair in a vaguely human shape, he has an idea of where Newton is.
“You stay here. Try to get yourself warm,” Hermann says. “I’ll find you something to wear, and—Are you hungry? I’m sure you’re hungry, I’ll find you something. I’ll make tea.” He shakes his head, annoyed at himself for forgetting who he’s talking to. “I’ll make coffee.”
“Tea’s fine. Anything hot, really, I don’t mind.”
“Don’t be absurd. You hate tea.” He remembers to shut the window, then all but runs from the room.
So. This is all a bit of a shock, isn’t it? But it’s all right. Newton has gone and done something foolish, and Hermann has to help him out of a jam, and that’s all right.
Hermann does not always take well to surprises. He is not easily adaptable. He is, however, a practical person. He is good at solving problems. His friend has appeared on his doorstep in a great deal of difficulty, cold, hungry and exhausted, and that is something Hermann can do something about. Everything else can wait.
He has been making an effort recently to replace some of the more worn out items in his wardrobe with things that fit him a bit better, but he still has plenty that Newt can wear. Pajamas and a flannel robe, his thickest woolen socks. The sort of things Newton loves to tease him for wearing, but they’re warm and comfortable, and that’s all that matters now.
He brings his bundle into the sitting room, where Newton has settled on the floor so close to the fireplace he’s practically in it, blanket over his head and clasped together under his chin.
“My mother made that,” Hermann says. “If I see one single scorch mark, you’ll be out on the street before you know what hit you.”
“Oh. Sorry.” Newton scoots back, away from the fire, his voice flat and weary. He’s shivering, if the movement of the blanket is anything to go by.
“Newton, I’m joking. It’s only an old blanket. You’re much more important. Here.” He holds the clothes out to where he thinks Newton’s hands must be, then, once they’re taken from him, conscientiously turns his back so Newton can get dressed.
“You can’t see me,” Newton reminds him.
“Yes. Right.” He’s only trying to be polite, but that is a bit silly, now that he thinks about it. Even so, he doesn’t turn to look in Newton’s direction. “I’ll just make the coffee, shall I?”
“Thanks,” Newton says. “Old man.”
The words lack any of the bite they might have had just a few short years ago. They come out fond and familiar.
“Whippersnapper,” Hermann says, and walks away.
He has the coffee brewing, and he’s rifling through the cabinets when Newton pads in after him. It’s—disorienting, him standing there in Hermann’s clothes and blanket, recognizably human but missing his hands and head. But after a moment spent struggling to process it, Hermann shakes his head and returns to his rummaging.
“How hungry are you? I haven’t been shopping recently, but I should be able to come up with something for you.”
“I’m starving, dude. I—it’s been—hard, you know, I mean—”
“Of course. I can imagine you’ve had some difficulties. Banana?” He holds the overripe fruit out to the empty suit of clothes. It plucks itself out of his hand, peels itself, and then half of it vanished in a single go.
“Oh muh guh,” Newton groans. Hermann catches a glimpse of half-chewed banana through what must be his open mouth.
“Oh, that’s odd,” Hermann says. “I thought I’d be watching you digest that, but it just disappears.”
“Uh-huh.” The food doesn’t make a reappearance, which probably means Newton is minding his manners and chewing with his mouth closed.
“How long since you’ve eaten?” Hermann asks.
Newton swallows, audibly if not visibly.
“I dunno, a while? You’d think this would make it easier to sneak around, but like, if people see some food floating away, they think it’s like a ghost or something. Scream. And throw things.” He shrinks down into the cocoon he’s made of the blanket, and the second half of the banana disappears. The peel hangs in midair until Hermann takes it and throws it away.
“I have some leftover curry. Should I heat it up for you?” Hermann offers.
“Yeah! Thanks, man.” There’s a sniffle, which Hermann chooses to attribute to the cold. “I, um…I really didn’t expect you to be so chill about it. Seriously, thank you.”
“Oh, we’ll get to the screaming and throwing things later. For now, you might pour us both some coffee.” Once he’s absolutely sure Newton is all right, this peace between them will fall apart. In the meantime, Hermann busies himself at the stove, pouring his leftovers into a pot and putting it on to simmer.
“You sure you want coffee?” Newton asks. “You’ll be up all night.”
“I had rather assumed this was something urgent enough to start on right away.”
“No, I mean…it’s not a problem that can be solved in one night. You might as well get your beauty sleep.”
“Right. The coffee’s all yours, then.” Newton can drink a whole pot of coffee and go right to sleep. Hermann would do better to avoid it. He gives the curry a stir. “I don’t have a guest room, by the way. Would you prefer the bed or the couch?”
“Oh, shit. Oh my god. I’ll take the couch, obviously I’m not kicking you out of your own bed. I can’t believe you’d even offer that.”
“I gave you my bed in Hong Kong once,” Hermann says quietly. That’s a time they’ve never spoken of, when their enmity was at its worst and they’d truly made a good show of hating each other. But Newton had been ill then, and Hermann hadn’t liked to leave him to fend for himself, regardless of their personal problems. He always has been more concerned with Dr. Geiszler’s well-being than he should sensibly allow himself to be.
“You always step up when I really need you.” Newton turns away to pour the coffee, shoulders hunched with embarrassment. How fascinating, to be able to read his body language even without seeing his face. “I know, I know, with worldwide destruction a certain alternative, et cetera. Sorry I keep doing this to you. Not giving you a choice.”
“It’s always been my choice, Newton.” He hovers a hand over the curry, and, judging it hot enough, spoons it into a bowl and sets it on the counter. Newton takes a seat there, sipping from the coffee cup the way he often does when his face is showing something he’d rather hide. Hermann does not disguise his own smile at that.
“Dude, what’s so funny?”
“It’s good to see you again,” Hermann says, with an ironic twist to his mouth. He settles a hand on his old friend’s shoulder for just a moment as he passes. “Eat. I’ll make up the couch for you.”
Hermann retrieves sheets, blankets, and a pillow, finding it easier to keep busy than to sit and wait for Newton to recover himself. In the old days, he’d have started off with shouting, casting blame for whatever the damn fool has gone and done to himself. And they’d have quarreled instead of coming to any productive end, because Newton does not do well when he feels himself attacked.
Nor does Hermann, but at least he can console himself with the thought that he’s never turned himself invisible!
But he’s not going to get upset. Anger and recriminations won’t solve anything. He’ll keep his temper until he’s absolutely certain Newt is as close to all right as an invisible man can be.
Hermann makes the couch into the sort of comfortable nest that Newton is unlikely to appreciate. If past experience is any indication, the man will try to stay awake, doze off sitting upright in a chair, wake up just before dawn, make a controlled fall onto the couch and sleep again for an hour and a half rolled up in the blanket with the sheet bunched underneath him and the pillow knocked to the floor. Newton is disorder incarnate. But Hermann makes the couch up just the same, because it’s inconceivable that he wouldn’t make a space for him.
Just as he’s finishing up, Hermann hears slow footsteps coming up behind him. He doesn’t turn. What is there to see?
“Don’t tell me you’ve finished eating already,” he says dryly. Newton’s table manners sometimes leave something to be desired, especially when he’s too hungry to care, but even if he were starving to death he couldn’t have gotten through all that curry in under two minutes.
“I, um…” Newton says. “I w…” A soft breath. “I…”
Now Hermann does turn, and is startled all over again by the sight of his clothes standing up with no one in them. He shakes his head; better get used to this. It’s only Newton.
“Are you all right?” Hermann asks.
“I’m s…” He gasps. “I’m sorry, I…” His arms wrap around Hermann, invisible fingers clutching at the back of his shirt. His cheek rests against Hermann’s, still cold and rough with several days’ growth of beard. Of course. He can’t see to shave.
“It’s all right,” Hermann says, patting uncertainly at Newton’s shoulder. He never has been any good at offering comfort, but he can see that Newton needs it. Well—not see, but…
“If I’d known you would be this nice to me, I would have come sooner,” Newton says, not relaxing his grip by even the smallest fraction.
“I wish you had,” Hermann says honestly. “I’ve missed you.” He was never able to say that kind of thing before, but when one has drifted with someone, there’s little point maintaining the usual reserve.
“You’ve missed me?” Newton echoes, incredulous.
“Of course, Newton. You’re my oldest friend.” That they’ve spent the better part of their friendship shouting at each other means very little. That they’ve spent more than a year apart means even less. Newton remains the most significant connection he has ever made.
“You can’t lie to me, Herms. I’m your only friend.” Newton’s voice is shaky, but stronger with the familiar lines of teasing.
“That’s awfully rude of you to say. True, though,” Hermann admits. “I can’t talk to anyone around here. Haven’t had a good argument in months.” His hand moves from Newton’s shoulder to the back of his neck.
Newton’s hair has gotten longer. Long enough that the ends brush Hermann’s fingers. He tries to put old daydreams out of his mind. It’s not for him to run his fingers through that hair, not in tenderness or a moment of passion. If he might once have thought of such things, their postwar separation has put it all to rest.
He exerts a gentle pressure, and Newton’s head comes to rest on his shoulder. They have not done this sort of thing before. Hermann has never been comfortable getting so close. But now it feels as natural as breathing.
“You should have come sooner,” Hermann says firmly. “You know I would never turn you away.”
“Yeah, great. So I screw up again, and then I have to come ruin your life, again. That’s great, Hermann. That’s really great for you.”
“I wouldn’t hardly consider my life ruined just at present,” Hermann says. His fingers press into the junction between shoulder and neck, drawing soothing patterns into muscles knotted with tension. Poor fellow, what must he have been going through all this time?
“I thought you were looking forward to never seeing me again,” Newton says.
“Well, I haven’t seen you yet, have I?” Hermann says dryly.
Newton laughs, relaxing further against Hermann’s shoulder.
“You’re funny. I always forget that.”
“You’re so over the top, you always force me to play the straight man,” Hermann counters.
“Weird. I never would have pegged you as a straight man,” Newton says with another watery laugh.
“You’ve never pegged me at all,” Hermann replies.
At that, Newton lets go of him, staggering back and sputtering in shock.
“You can’t say things like that! Holy shit, Hermann, you are repressed, you’re a stick in the mud, you hate fun! Last time I made a sex joke, you called HR!”
“For all the good that did,” Hermann agrees calmly. He can’t tell what expression might be on Newton’s face, but he can only imagine it must be quite satisfying.
“God! How have I never seen this side of you before?”
“You’ve seen every side of me,” Hermann reminds him. They’ve drifted together. There can’t possibly be any real surprises left. In fact, he’d rather thought that was why Newton had moved on so quickly after the war’s end—because he’d seen too much. They could have gone somewhere together, if they’d wanted to. But instead, well. Newton disappeared.
“Hey, um. Sorry I hugged you. I know you don’t like that,” Newton says.
“What?”
“It’s just, this is kinda like my worst nightmare, and I’m freaking out, and you’re being so cool, I don’t know what to do.”
“I could be less ‘cool,’ if that would make you feel better,” Hermann offers. “I assume this is the result of some sort of self-experimentation. Shall I criticize your intentions first, or your methodology?”
“You don’t know that my methodology was flawed!” Newton protests.
Silently, Hermann gestures at his invisible bloody face.
“Oh, fuck you, that was an unforeseen side effect!”
“Unforeseen,” Hermann echoes flatly.
“Uh. Yeah,” he huffs, crossing his arms and dramatically slouching. “Look, you can’t talk shit. You don’t even know what I did.”
“Injected yourself with kaiju dna,” Hermann guesses.
“Um. Okay, so. Yeah, but. Shit. I mean, I had a good reason,” he mumbles.
“Yes?”
Newton fidgets helplessly while Hermann simply waits.
“Okay, can you go back to being nice to me?” Newton finally asks.
“Make up your mind, Newton. Do you want an argument or not?” Without waiting for an answer, Hermann takes his friend by the shoulder and guides him back into the kitchen. “Either way, you should finish eating so we can both get some rest.”
“Your curry is bland,” Newton complains.
“You’re a bloody ingrate, and you’re lying to yourself about your own tolerance for spice.”
“Jackass.” Newton tilts his head sideways, invisible hair and cheek brushing against Hermann’s hand, an unmistakably affectionate gesture that sends a pang through Hermann’s heart. They used to touch each other like this, easily, casually, when there was no one else around. He hadn’t realized how much he missed it.
“Are you all right?” Hermann asks. “I mean—if you were in any immediate danger, I assume you would have said, but just to be clear, you will be all right until morning?”
“Yeah, like. Given that I can’t exactly run any tests on myself, it’s hard to be a hundred percent sure, but yeah, I should be fine. No further mutations. Just the one big one.”
“All right, then eat your food and get some sleep. You must have been through a great deal of hardship getting here. Unnecessarily, I might add.” He shakes his head at Newton’s argumentative scoff. “You might have found yourself some help if you’d just told someone what happened.”
“I did tell someone,” Newton says. “I told you.”
At that, Hermann is forced to nod. At least Newton has thought to come to him for help, rather than try to solve his problems on his own. But that just goes to show what a mistake it was for the two of them to separate, if Hermann is the only one who can keep this man out of trouble. Next time, he’ll have to make sure he’s closer by when Newton needs him.
“We’ll get you sorted,” Hermann promises. Whatever it is exactly that Newton has done to himself, they—and perhaps a few of Hermann’s colleagues who can be trusted not to fly off the handle—will work out how to reverse it.
In the meantime, Hermann scowls fondly at the little menace, and wishes he could see what face Newton is making in return.