something other than deseperation
Rating: T
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Summary: "Sometimes, you can't escape fate."
They are standing in a blank space.
Or—no; he's standing in a blank space. Two of him, anyway, even if he's not sure if the other one is him. Still; worth asking.
"Are you me?" he asks; the words soundless in the void and yet echoing; drags painful nails on window-panes and soothes the burn of the Drift all in one, or at least, that's how it feels—he's not quite sure what's going on here.
The other one—the other maybe-Newt—shrugs, the motion making his sleeves ruck up a bit; reveal the more faded scars that mirror Newt's own. "Depends," he says, quietly; and he's not meeting Newt's eyes. He's not wearing glasses, either, so that's a point in favour of the "this is all a dream and/or hallucination" theory.
Newt laughs; harsh. "Cryptic," he says. "On?"
The other's expression shifts; goes, for a moment, blank; like he's trying to find the words, like he knows what he wants to say but doesn't, exactly, know how. "At what point," he says, finally, "you consider someone stops being themselves, and…I guess, becomes a different version."
"…that makes….literally no sense," Newt says, after a moment.
It makes the other's expression crack, finally; into a bitter smile. "Yeah," he says; soft, still. "Spending a lot of time in your own head makes you get real philosophical. And annoying."
In your own head—? And that's as far as he gets; because, suddenly, it's slamming onto him like a ten-ton bridge crashing down; the second Drift, and the third, and the fourth; and leaving Hermann, who he loves, and who, god, loves him back, for ten years, and working for a private sector company, trapped in his own mind; puppeted by genocidal kaiju masters, by Precursors; his fingers typing away at the keyboard as he codes line after line of the program that'll help try and bring about (the second attempt at) the end of the world. Of Hermann gasping beneath his inhumanly-strong grip. Of the months—almost two years, fuck—spent getting it out, spent trying to get back to himself after They're stopped.
"Oh," Newt croaks; and he's stumbled at some point; fallen to his knees, because they burn, and that shouldn't even be possible here, but whatever, "oh fuck. Jesus—Jesus Christ, dude."
The other's smile tightens; he looks, for a moment, apologetic. "Yep," he says.
"That's—that's gonna happen to me?" Newt asks; begs, almost, because—god, no, no, it can't, they're going to win—
May-Newt, who Newt is beginning to suspect is just Newt, shrugs. "Well, in theory," he says, "Personally, I think you're a hallucinatory version of myself that my brain cooked up to try and give me some sort of—dream closure?" He smiles; again; sharp and rueful; shrugs. "I'm, like, 80% sure I'm asleep right now."
"Fuck off," Newt rasps; knees stinging still, and he can't figure out how to get up. "How do I know you're the real one?"
"Because dream selves can't tell the actual future, dipshit," he snaps; and it's the first time he's raised his voice, and they both flinch at it; and the other's gaze skitters nervously from his hands to the floor. "Look," he says, after a few beats. "You're me, we're smarter than this."
"Apparently not, seeing as you—we—whatever—" he lets out a frustrated rush of air—"Drifted with a fucking kaiju brain! Again!"
"Yeah, shove together a, ah," and here the other stops; drags his fingers through his hair, and meets Newt's gaze for the first time—"delicate mix of PTSD, a life shake-up, and alien mind control, and you've got a real shitty chemical reaction, Peabody." His tone is, unexpectedly, dry; he seems to have said this before, at least in some variation.
"Don't I—we—have a reminder on our phone to take our meds?"
"It gets eaten," the other says.
"Oh—ah, okay, so that's where it went. Fuck. Uh," he laughs. "Probably tasted better than Hannibal, though."
It's a weak attempt at humour, but the other laughs; deep and hearty, and looks startled by it. "Man," he says, almost wistfully, "I'd forgotten I can be funny."
And if that doesn't say a fuckton about him. "Jesus," Newt whispers, and sits down; because this whole on his knees thing isn't exactly the most fun. "What a terrifying thing to forget, dude. That's like—our one redeeming social quality-slash-skill. How the hell did you get amnesty talking like someone from a Wes Anderson film high on shrooms?"
The other's standing, still; and he looks uncomfortable; shrugs, breaks eye-contact. "Probably 'cause it displays evidence of trauma or depression or "learning my lesson" or whatever," he says, nonchalant; or at least attempting it, but the words come out a little hoarse and Newt knows this has been hurting him.
"What fucking part of this was a lesson we needed to learn? What the fuck?" Newt hisses; teeth biting, in his passion, into the inside of his mouth; not quite painful, but more than just a sting. "What the fuck," he says, again.
"Hey," other-Newt says; one shoulder raising higher than the other. "All I asked for was a remote little place in the middle of nowhere, preferably the Highlands, with no one around for a good fifteen miles, and a clause in my watchdog contract so I can buy as much fertiliser as I need, but—" he smiles; wanly, but almost…proud, for a moment, before it fades—"they said thank you for your service, Dr. Gottlieb, please stop making the UN members cry. I don't…really care what they think of me."
"Yeah, but, like—fuck," Newt says; the word half-hysterical. "All that's going to happen to me?"
"Essentially," the other deadpans; "have a nice decade."
Newt drags in a choked breath. "That's—that's not fair," he whispers. "You…we win, and then, and then, and—and then that happens? That's not fucking fair."
The other's shoulders snap back; tense, and he says, quietly, so quietly, "You think I'm not, like, intensely aware of that, dude? That I don't have—that I don't have residual anger over the fact that I literally sold my soul to save the world and then lost ten years of my fucking life and another almost two years in torture jail?" His tone's rising, now, and he's taken a few steps forward; hands clenched into fists, but all that Newt can focus on is the pain in his eyes; the fear, and the sadness. "It is, in fact, super unfair! And I—" he drags in a ragged breath. "I don't even know what my brain is doing with you!"
Newt blinks. "What do you mean?"
"Why—why show me this?" he cries; and there's tears in his eyes, now; and he scrubs at them violently. "Why fucking torture me with the—the person I used to be before all this shit went down? Like—"haha, look, Newt, you were only lightly traumatised"! Like, I fucking look at you, or, or—me, or whatever, and how am I supposed to not get sick at everything that hasn't happened to you yet!?"
"You think it doesn't scare me too?" Newt shoots back; presses his hands against a cold floor that doesn't exist.
"You're a dream!" the other hisses; turning away from him. "You're not—real. You don't get to be scared here."
Newt grinds his teeth. "Fuck off, yes I do!" he nearly shouts; and his nails are digging into his palms, now. "I'm still you, buddy, and I still get to look at everything I know is going to happen and be terrified! I—what am I even supposed to do with all of this? I can't change what's going to happen—I'm not real, I get it, but I still don't want to be—to be—"
He trails off into a choked sob; drops his head to his knees; lets the tears soak into what appear to be his jeans.
"Yeah," says the other, quietly, after a moment; and he sounds closer. "I don't…I don't have a word for it, either."
"What even happened to us?" Newt whispers.
"We made it through. That's supposed to be…to be enough."
"It's not," Newt mutters; through a tight throat. "It's not."
"I…I know," the other says, and Newt feels the air shift as he sits by his side. "I'm…jealous of you, honestly, but—I mean, it's stupid."
"Try me," Newt challenges; though it sounds more like a plea at this stage.
"Ha," the other murmurs. "I look at you, and I don't know…whether to feel terrified, or—or a little…better."
A beat; only the sound of Newt sniffling as he tries to breathe. "Why's that?" he asks.
"Because…because after all those years, it's still—it's still me," he says; quiet. "You are. I…I am. We're different, but we're not."
"Is it…is it bad if I don't want to be you?"
"Nah," the other says; aiming for cheerfulness, but coming off to much like he's said this, too, before. "I wouldn't want to be me, either. But that's the way it is. We…" he pauses. "We make it through, though."
Newt remembers. He swallows, thickly. "It hurts," he says; muffled into the denim.
"A lot," other-Newt says. "It did, and it still…it still does. But we—you, me—we've got Hermann. And friends, and—and chickens."
"Living out that sweet, sweet homosocial pastoral fantasy," Newt croaks; but he's smiling, a bit, and he suspects the other is, too.
"Yeah," he says. "Yeah. Here's looking at you, kid."
"My condolences," Newt says; because it seems appropriate.
"Nah," the other murmurs; "it's…it's okay."
And then, after a moment, he moves; his arms coming up to embrace Newt, pull him against him, gentle, and Newt half-melts into it with a sob of relief. He can't—god, he's never going to be able to go back to this, that's what they're both thinking, but there's…something like freedom in that.
"Am I…am I going to be okay?" he asks; into the fabric of the other's sweater; soft, and smelling a lot like he remembers Hermann's body-wash does. He knows the answer already, but he needs to—he needs to hear him say it.
"No," the other replies; and he's rubbing comforting circles on Newt's back. "But then…yeah. You'll get better at it."
