I still draw, and I miss getting requests, no matter how rare they were, but I’m trying my best to save up for a PC- hopefully before the end of October. 🙏 99/139
If you happen to have any pennies spare to chuck at me in return for arts, the link is in the source of this post- click it!
Reblogs help if you can’t do that, likes don’t count cuz no one sees them! THANKS 🐸
prompt: we’re secret friends with benefits and you accidentally wore my shirt to to the party so you’re pretending you came as me and it turns out your impression of me is on point and you know me better than you know myself are you sure you’re not in love with me?? \\ requested by @hermannsthumb
sorry this is so late (but it’s still halloween on the west coast? did I make it??) some shatterdome-era, halloween-themed com dram.
Newt cracks an eye open, waking from a nap he hadn’t realized he was taking. He lifts his head and looks where it had previously been resting—on Hermann’s bare chest. Newt’s eyes drag upward to Hermann’s face—eyes still closed, gently resting.
Reaching over to his nightstand without looking, Newt first mistakenly grabs his glasses, then his remote for the A/C setup he cobbled together from scrap jaeger metal (not officially approved, but no one has to know), Newt finally picks up his phone and checks the time. He bolts upright immediately. “Uh.” He glances down at Hermann. “Not to kick you out, but I’m gonna need to kick you out.”
Hermann props himself up on his elbows. “Oh?” He says coolly. “Plans this evening?”
“The Halloween party, dude!” Newt exclaims, leaping up out of bed, tossing the covers back so forcefully that they’re flung off Hermann as well. “It’s only like, my favorite holiday out of the whole year.”
With a yawn, Hermann reclines back onto Newt’s mattress and pulls the comforter back over himself. “In July you said Christmas was your favorite holiday,” he says up at the ceiling.
“It was in the heat of the moment,” Newt says, fishing through various piles of clothes—piles he insists are clean but just haven’t been put away yet. “We really do need some kind of mid-year holiday to break things up, you know? Why save all the good stuff for the last three months? Anyway.” Newt retrieves a white tank from one such pile and pulls it on. “I’d invite you to come,” he says as casually as possible. “But there’s a strict costume policy.”
“How gracious of you,” Hermann says, again in that cool tone. “I’m not interested in costumes.”
“Or socializing, or games, or fun. Yeah, I get it.” Newt hops into a pair of tan pants, belting them at record speed. “Now hurry up, will you?”
Hermann groans as he sits upright. His hair is mussed and sticking up at odd ends. Newt swallows down an impulse to run his hands through it one more time, to straighten it, to tuck it in place just the way Hermann likes it.
Instead, he tosses a discarded white shirt from the floor of his quarters, pelting Hermann squarely in the chest. “Here.” He follows up with a deep maroon sweater. “We’re burning daylight.”
---
They step out into the concrete hallway of the Shatterdome and start to walk toward the Mess Hall, the same direction as Hermann’s own quarters.
“You could have given me a bit more time,” Hermann grumbles, fussing with his hair, still sticking up a bit at odd ends. “I look...disheveled.”
“Hey, it’s working for you.” Newt steps in front of Hermann quickly, but continues to walk backward as he holds his arms out wide for display. “How do I look?”
Hermann looks him up and down. After a short pause, he says, “I can’t evaluate your costume until I know who or what you’re supposed to be.”
“John McClane!” Newt falls back to Hermann’s side. “You’ve seen /Die Hard/, right? Tell me you’ve seen Die Hard.”
“I’ve seen Die Hard,” Hermann says, deadpan.
“You’re lying. It’s okay. You’re forgiven. It’s unforgivable. But I forgive you.”
“Gracious of you,” Hermann murmurs with a small smile. He tugs at his sweater collar. “It’s bloody warm.”
“There’s an easy solution for that, Erdos,” Newt quips. “It’s what you get for wearing sub-zero-ready knitwear in a tropical climate.”
Hermann scowls and stops, handing Newt his cane as he proceeds to pull his sweater over his head. He looks down and lets out a groan. “Newton, this is—“
“Dr. Geiszler, Dr. Gottlieb!”
Mako approaches from the other end of the hallway, clad in a long black trench coat—clearly borrowed from someone who was at least a foot taller and broader than her—and thin sunglasses.
“Mako!” Newt waves. “Are you Neo? Dude, did you watch The Matrix? Amazing, right? That is so badass.”
She lifts her sunglasses and smiles broadly. “Keanu Reeves, he’s the best.” She lifts her sunglasses and considers Newt’s attire.
“Dr. Geiszler...Are you...someone whose clothes have been stolen?”
Newt twitches. “I’m John McClane. Die Hard? Don’t worry about it, it’s from before your time.”
Mako shrugs and smiles politely as she turns her attention to Hermann. “Dr. Gottlieb, you are a...Velvet Underground fan?”
“No, Newton is—“
Newt snaps his attention to his left and sees what Hermann had noticed—under his maroon sweater was Newt’s own Velvet Underground t-shirt, the iconic Andy Warhol banana print. Something that Hermann would never wear, on principle.
Hermann is wide-eyed in surprise. “Er, what I meant to say is...” He clears his throat. “That’s, er my costume,” he says simply. “Newton.”
“WHAT?” Newt exclaims reflexively, unable to stop himself. The corner of Hermann’s mouth twitch upwards. His expression is some bizarre distribution of mortified and smug. “I—...Yes.”
“That is cute.” Mako looks back at Newt, mildly disappointed. “I’m surprised you did not come as each other.” Before Newt can protest and explain, she lowers her sunglasses back down, strikes a pose of such genuine intensity that Newt feels momentarily frozen, before breaking out into a smile and gently leading the two of them, each with one hand, into the mess hall.
Tendo, leaning casually on the snack table, greets the two of them as they grab a couple of drinks—beer that had been snuck into the Shatterdome by some brave anonymous individual, he explains. “So,” he says to Newt. “What are you, a discount construction worker?”
Newt flips him off. Tendo laughs and turns to Hermann. “What’s your ‘stume, doc?”
Newt watches Hermann take another drink before responding, “I’m, er. Newt.” He laughs nervously. “It’s a shallow approximation—“
“Don’t sweat it, doc, no one’s got time to do anything detailed.” Tendo waves his plastic fangs. “You know. More important stuff going on. But—“ he pauses to put the fangs in. “You’ll also be amazed at how far an impression goes to sell it. I’m sure you’ve got some stories.”
"Well, yes, just the other day...” He glances quickly at Newt. Newt looks back at him and crosses his arms.
Hermann straightens up and starts speaking, more quickly and pitched than usual. “‘OSHA procedures are more guidelines than rules,’” he says, quoting—Newt realizes—something Newt had said the day before. A few near bystanders turn their heads to casually tune in. “‘So by extension, I’m the Captain Barbossa of lab safety.’”
A few scattered laughs. Hermann looks around, shocked, possibly by the getting any sort of reaction and possibly by his own delivery.
“Ha!” A nearby J-Tech officer exclaims. “That is legit.” He turns to someone on his left. “I heard the Marshall chew him out a couple weeks ago for—“
“Hey, asshole.” Newt shoots him a glare. “Shut up.” It’s not intelligent, Newt knows, but it’s enough to make a new officer wince.
Tendo lets out a laugh and claps Hermann on the shoulder. “Good one, doc.” He glances at Newt and smirks before taking a sip from his cup. Newt calls that glance and raises it with a death glare that fully transmits, Don’t you say a fucking word.
The initial bystanders disperse. Newt crosses his arms. “That’s not an impression. That’s just one single thing I said once. Taken way out of context, I might add.”
Hermann starts to silently fish through the candy bowl on the snack table.
Newt leans over to watch. “Lookin’ for something?”
At last, Hermann meticulously plucks a green Jolly Rancher from the bowl. “Green is the best flavor,” he says facetiously, delicately unwrapping it from the plastic. “Never mind that green isn’t a flavor but a color.” He pops it into his mouth and grimaces. “These are so sweet,” he says, returning to his usual tone. “Newton, how on earth do you eat these.
Newt rolls his eyes before taking a green Jolly Rancher out of the bowl for himself. “That green was wasted on you, dude” But when he looks back at Hermann he’s smiling slightly, albeit not looking in his direction.
---
For the next half hour, Newt tries to keep a safe distance from Hermann. He makes lap around the mess hall. One engineer, dressed as a pirate (basic, but effective) calls out, “John McClane!” And Newt makes a show cheering and giving her a high-five that is audible throughout the hall.
But the space is finite, and eventually his path leads him back to Hermann, who’s at the center of a small group of PPDC staff who are amused by his current monologuing. Newt slides up behind them and catches Hermann in mid-sentence.
“—and it’s an album from the point of view of a man who’s wretched, who is confronting his misdoings, his mistreatment of others, his skewed relationship with love, in this operatic way—“
In that moment, it strikes Newt that Hermann may have actually been listening. Through all the monologues, through all the rants. Newt flushes with equal parts embarrassment in the accuracy and another feeling he’s tried to push down for seven years.
“But the thing about Weezer,“ Hermann continues, emphasizing the band with an American emphasis on the -er, “Is that they created two perfect albums, so their next twelve mediocre ones are forgivable—“
“The White Album is not mediocre!” Newt finally exclaims from behind the small group, unable to stop himself. He pushes forward and softly grabs Hermann by the arm. Hermann looks up at him with a raised eyebrow, defiant. Newt turns around at the small group casually listening in. “Yeah, yeah, he’s great—excuse us for a sec, will ya?” Without waiting for a reply, he gently pulls his colleague by the arm to the hallway outside, promptly stepping in close, so Hermann is the only thing between Newt and the wall.
“What the hell, dude?” Newt hisses.
Hermann leans his head back against the concrete wall. “Being you is very easy,” he says scathingly.
With a short laugh, and Newt goes in for the kiss. Rough and agitated, how this sequence of events typically starts out. How things started hours prior in the lab, resulting in the change of location to Newt’s room to tear off one another’s clothes as quickly as possible. He slips a hand under Hermann’s/Newt’s own shirt and slides it up and beside Hermann’s ribcage, pulling him in closer.
“This is a new level of narcissism,” Hermann says breathlessly when Newt pulls away. “Even for you.”
“Says the guy who tastes like green.” Newt smirks. “You think you know me?”
“You are impossible not to know.” Hermann says, lifting his chin.
They lock eyes. Newt searches for some confirmation of something in Hermann’s gaze. There’s a hint, close, just behind his eyes, but it’s just out of reach. Despite his better judgement, Newt slips his hand out from under Hermann’s shirt, lifts it, hesitates momentarily, but proceeds to card it gently through Hermann’s hair, smoothing out the odd ends. From front to back, then around to rest on Hermann’s cheek. Hermann looks at him, wide-eyed.
“Newton,” he says softly.
Newt swallows. “Yeah?”
The faceless drone of the party on the other room extends the silence. They look at one another for a minute. And it strikes Newt that it’s longest either of them has gone in each other’s company without a word.
But as “Monster Mash” comes on the speakers, the mess hall erupts into cheers. The incongruity of it all breaks whatever was there, between them in the hallway. Hermann swallows. “I’ll be returning to my quarters, now,” he says, voice just above a whisper. Newt steps back, giving Hermann the space to collect his cane and step out. He gives Newt one last look, opens his mouth to speak, but closes it. He walks away without another word.
