Aftermath: 49 - Like an Ill-Sheathed Knife (2028)

“He’s working his magic on you.” Mako wipes her eyes, returns to her scones. “You were a tough customer.”

Chapter warnings: Realistic depictions of neurological, physical, and bureaucratic trauma. War. Grief. Death. Mental illness. Regular illness.

Text iteration: Midnight.

Additional notes: None.

2028 (Forty-nine – Like an Ill-Sheathed Knife)

Hermann wakes to quiet music. Cello and—harp, he thinks. It’s a song he knows. A traditional holiday song: “Bring a Torch, Jeannette, Isabella.” He looks, puzzled, at the door to the bedroom. He checks his watch. It’s a shade before seven o’clock in the morning. He has not had coffee, he is exhausted, Newton is curled up beside him, and someone is moving in the kitchen, opening and closing cabinets.

Mako, he thinks. Mako.

His throat closes. There is something so terribly bittersweet about Mako Mori moving almost silently about their apartment, alone, no doubt putting together breakfast, playing softly for herself traditional holiday music. He drops his head to Newton’s shoulder, wraps an arm around the other man, and cries silently. 

What is wrong with him? Is he happy or unhappy? He has no idea.

She should—she should be elsewhere, he’s certain. In another world, she would be. In this world, she has only a few people in her life who knew her before she was an international icon, only a few she can call family. Hermann has the terrible suspicion that after Newton’s meltdown two days ago, she told Mr. Becket not to come. The bones in his face ache with the memory of Stacker Pentecost, Caitlin Lightcap—scores of Jaeger pilots who sang karaoke with her in an Alaskan bar then walked into the sea and never came back.

Newton’s hand comes to rest on Hermann’s hair. “Hey,” he whispers. “S’wrong?”

“Nothing.” Hermann holds him tightly, tries to stop his tears from falling. “Nothing.”

“Shh.” Newton wraps his arms around Hermann, dragging him up until Hermann is half atop him. “C’mere.”

Hermann presses his forehead into Newton’s neck. 

“You gonna tell me or what, Dr. Gottlieb?” The words are slurred, but gently delivered.

“Mako is in our kitchen making breakfast,” Hermann manages, not knowing how much of this the man will really take in.

Newton doesn’t reply right away. He continues stroking Hermann’s hair. “Why’s this so hard for you?” he asks, his diction a bit crisper.

“It doesn’t matter,” Hermann murmurs. “It doesn’t even make sense.”

“Myeah, ’s too much,” Newton agrees. “You crying about Mako? Or me?”

“The war,” Hermann says. “The time we all had of it.”

“Hermann.” Newton taps him gently under the chin, clearly a directive to look up. He does so, and sees Newton looking at him through half-lidded eyes. The light coming from the windows is gray. Gray sky, gray water. Tiny flakes fall sparsely. “War’s over. Mako brought you Christmas presents. I’m literally cuddling you. We’re both’n academics. Harp is coming out of our speakers. Harp, Hermann.”

“I know,” Hermann says.

Newton draws a thumb across Hermann’s cheek. “Such high expectations.”

Hermann nods wordlessly.

“I know it,” Newton sighs. “Let’s go be super nice to Mako for a few hours before Hypothetical Rain, like, ruins my day. Again.”

Hermann shifts, then sits, pulling Newton up with him. “You don’t want to go back to sleep?”

“Pretty sure that’s all I’ve done the last week,” Newton says, petulant. “But I think I’m with it enough now that I won’t torture you with crying about how I’m lacking my usual brain power.”

“That,” Hermann says sharply, “is in no way your fault.”

“Meh,” Newton says. “Little bit my fault.”

“No.” Hermann arranges the pillows behind Newton, then presses the man back against them. “Wait here.”

Hermann makes short work of his morning ablutions, then tries to help Newton with his until the other man forcibly shuts the door in his face.

Clearly, he’s feeling better. 

Hermann exits their bedroom to find Mako making cinnamon scones. A baked fruit dish is in the oven. Cider is mulling in their crockpot. Christmas music plays from their sound system. She has affixed a garland to the counter, and on the table is a wreath. Near the television, she’s set up a tiered system of poinsettias to resemble a tree. 

Mako gives him a delighted smile as he takes everything in. On impulse, he walks over and embraces her. She hugs him back tightly. When he lets her go, he sees she too is teary-eyed. 

“Two hugs in two days,” she says. “Better watch it.”

“I’m sure I’m running behind,” Hermann replies.

“He’s working his magic on you.” Mako wipes her eyes, returns to her scones. “You were a tough customer.” She smiles at him, a touch uncertain, because she is, perhaps for the first time, teasing him.

“I agree,” Hermann says, “on both counts.”