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Summary
No matter what opinion Doctor Gottlieb had proclaimed concerning his tattoos on numerous occasions, Newt knew the score. He'd glimpsed a heady rush of somewhat mortified appreciation, just an old memory surfacing in the Drift from the first time Newt rolled up his sleeves in the lab. He could still feel it like a taut string in Hermann's mind, in the same way he knew his lab partner was too surly to ever admit it. It was all tangled up with his impression of the way Newt approached the world, a precisely calibrated instrument in one hand and a nail-bat in the other. Newt had to smile at the way Hermann saw him, a churlish adolescent and a half-mad genius all wrapped up in a hurricane.
...or, sometimes even the sharpest minds in the PPDC can be excused for a being a bit dense.