mistaken identities
Rating: T
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Summary:"They meet years before; Hermann just doesn't realise that the vibrant man who bumped into him and mistook him for a celebrity was, well, that Newton."
"Oh my god," babbles the man who's just run into him, eyes wide. "Oh my god, dude, you're—you're the dude who played Owen Harper!"
Hermann blinks, confused. "Sorry, I don't—"
But the man's already talking over him, bouncing on his heels, and Hermann can't get a word in edgewise. Finally, he says, practically wheezing at this point—Hermann's not sure if he's taken a breath in the entire two or so minutes—, "Can I get an autograph?"
"I'm not—whoever you think I am," Herman interrupts. "Exactly who do you think I am?"
The man raises a brow. "Mr. Gorman? Burn Gorman?"
Hermann shakes his head. "I'm sorry, I'm afraid you've got me confused with someone else, Mr….?"
"Geiszler," the other provides. "Newton Geiszler—call me Newt, only my mom calls me Geiszler," he adds. "And I'm—I'm really sorry, dude, you just look, like, scary similar to him. You're not related by any chance, are you?"
"No, I'm afraid not, Mr. Geiszler," he replies. "As a matter of fact, I have no clue who you're talking about."
The other looks quite sheepish, apologising repeatedly before disappearing back into the crowd of people. Hermann frowns, contemplatively. What an odd man.
Oh well; he has places to go. Best not to dwell.
A few years later, he recieves a letter from a leading kaiju-biologist. The name rings familiar, somehow, but he shrugs it off. It doesn't occur to him where the name seems familiar from until almost five years after their first correspondence.
They're both in Anchorage, assigned to the Shatterdome there; Hermann, for his part, is barely able to contain his excitement at the fact that he's going to finally be meeting Newton in person. Dietrich and Karla tease him about it when he mentions it, accidentally, during a video-call, making Hermann blush scarlet.
But whatever he's expecting, it's not—this.
Because he recognizes this man. It's the man who practically knocked him over on a crowded street in Berlin, eight years ago, and mistook him for some actor.
"…Hermann?" Newton questions, shock on his face. "Wait—I know you…oh. Oh!"
Hermann glares at him. "Yes, astute observation, Newton."
"Hey!" the biologist protests, "it's hardly my fault you look just like him!"
"Save it," Hermann huffs, shoving past him.
It's hate at first sight, obviously; that's the only thing it could possibly be.
So they come stumbling out of the Drift five years later, and Hermann throws up in a toilet. It's not his most dignified moment. His head feels like it's going to explode, and he keeps expecting to see things through six, eight, ten eyes.
Newton—call me Newt—kindly provides him with a handkerchief and they help cancel the apocalypse.
"You thought it was hate at first sight?" Newt murmurs as they stumble down the hall, away from the festivities; his jacket's torn, blood dried above his lip. His grip on Hermann is tight.
Hermann frowns. "I did not," he objects. "I simply thought it was an…intense dislike."
"Why?" Newt asks, tongue flicking out to wet his lips. In the dark, Hermann can't quite tell, but he suspects that the other's pupils are blown wide.
"I thought you were mocking me, originally," Hermann admits, leaning just as heavily on Newt as he is on his cane. "People do not generally tend to pay me genuine compliments."
Newt hums, and Hermann rests his head against the other's shoulder. "Well, you're gonna get used to is," Newt promises. "'cause you deserve all the compliments in the world, Herms."
"Oh, do quit it with that nickname," Hermann says, but it's half hearted and they both know it.