see me/see me

Rating: T
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Summary: ""He was supposed to visit, you know," he says; knowing that the seemingly random change in topic won't make sense to the other man. "Today, actually—'bout half an hour ago, but I could be wrong, given that my internal clock sucks. I mean," he's rambling, now, and he knows it, but he can't stop; not now. "I wasn't—expecting him to, honestly, but it would have been…nice.""

It happens slowly; the change; and yet, sometimes, it feels like he blinked and suddenly, everything had changed. Both are correct, he supposes; in a way, it's been slow; building up to this for years, from the moment that the tattoo-gun touched his skin and spilt Trespasser onto it; and in a way, fast, too; waking up the morning after the Drift, after the War, and realising he wasn't in control; realising the War might have been over but the war had just begun.

He fights it; oh, he does. Let it never be said that Newton Geiszler was the sort of man to step aside and just let things happen—after all, he was one of the first to join up with the PPDC, in the aftermath of Oblivion Bay.

So yes; he does.

In a way.

At first.

And then he finds himself standing with a knife at the side of the bed and Hermann's unsuspecting, peaceful, sleeping face only a few inches away from the blade, and—

Well.

He gets the message loud and clear, needless to say. They'll take Hermann from him one way or another, if he keeps at this; keeps fighting them. And—maybe he should; he doesn't know what they want, exactly, but he can guess at it, from past knowledge; that it won't be anything good for humanity as a whole.

But Newt—Newt could never do that. He's not fucking—Spock, never has been, never will be; can't sacrifice the needs of the few for the needs of the many; because he needs Hermann, in this visceral way; the knowledge that, though he'll survive, he'll breathe, just fine if Hermann's gone, he won't live; not without him, not after this long.

So; here they are.

There's a barrier between him and the other man; bars, actually. He's in a jail-cell, though, so that makes sense. Hah. Tossed down here with another one of the PPDC's miscreants.

The Precursors are sitting in the background, for now; can't seem to be bothered to do anything, now, restrained. Oh, they will, eventually, of course—it's only a matter of time, but for now, they're more than content to leave Newt himself to deal with the cold, the fear, and the shitty rations.

"What're you in for?" Newt asks, conversationally; because this is the first person besides the guards he's seen in—god, who knows how long. A while.

The man doesn't reply, but that's fine. Newt's used to people not replying—whether because they don't give a damn about what he's saying and hope the silence will shut him up, or because he's trapped in his own mind and can't actually speak.

"I've been mind-controlled by aliens for the last ten years," Newt continues; matter-of-factly, and glances at the man again. He makes no sound; just sits there, curled in on himself a bit, face hidden by the hood of his sweater; overlarge. Newt goes on. "I didn't want to, really. Honestly, I tried to fight it.

"They cornered me, though, in the end. Shitty bastards get me, like a fucking TV show, and They say—um," he adopts a dry tone; goes for narrator; hello, audience, he thinks, and goes on. "If I cooperate, They say, this will be easier on everyone. Easier on Hermann. All I need to do is exactly what They say when I am allowed to step forward. As long as I don't let on that They are here then we can stay with Hermann. I stay still and I listen and there are times when I am allowed to step forward and I am given the chance to speak to him." He pauses; laughs, softly. "They say these are small tests and if I keep passing them They'll know They can trust me. I want Them to know I can be trusted. I will cooperate. Course," he grins ruefully, "They don't hold up their end of the promise, though I should probably have guessed that."

There's a silence as Newt stops talking; lost, for a moment, in thought.

"They're gone, now, though, don't worry," he says; as an afterthought. "I've, uh, been cleared by medical—'s why I'm down here instead of in the max security holding cell like at the beginning. I'm not, uh, going to reach through the bars and try and strangle you to death or anything."

And that, really, isn't what he should have said, given—well, everything, with Hermann, but it's out of his mouth already so the best he can do is cringe away from the words like they're going to hurt him, which, really, isn't an inaccurate assessment of the situation.

He should stop talking about this, probably; but it seems that once he's gotten going, there's nothing that's going to stop him. He understands, suddenly, why it annoys people.

"He was supposed to visit, you know," he says; knowing that the seemingly random change in topic won't make sense to the other man. "Today, actually—'bout half an hour ago, but I could be wrong, given that my internal clock sucks. I mean," he's rambling, now, and he knows it, but he can't stop; not now. "I wasn't—expecting him to, honestly, but it would have been…nice."

He sighs softly; shifts, leaning against the wall; closes his eyes.

In doing so, he almost misses the half-whispered, "Newton."

Almost.

His shoulders snap back; tense, for—what, he doesn't know. The voice is familiar; of course it is; no one else ever says his name like that.

"Dick move," he croaks, after a few shuddering breaths; opens his eyes and finds the other looking back at him, the hood down; his hair sticking up a bit on end. It's one of Newt's old hoodies, he realises, after a moment; the image dredged up from the depths of his memory.

Hermann gives a one-shouldered shrug. "I wasn't sure what to say," he says, and his voice is as uncertain and hoarse as Newt's feeling.

Newt laughs; relief, a bit; and tips his head forward, chin to chest. "You and me both, bud," he says, quietly. "You and me both."

They sit, silently, unmoving, for a long, long time, and then Hermann says, tentatively, "Can I—?", his hand reaching to the bars; waiting, and Newt nods silently; scoots closer so that he can reach. Hermann's hand settles on his, and he doesn't say anything.

"Thanks for coming," Newt says, after a few beats; the words barely making it out; caught up, still, honestly, in the sensation of Hermann's skin, even through the fabric of his pants.

Hermann gives a careful, half-faltering smile. "Of course," he says.