The tranquility of domestic bliss
Rating: G
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Germann Gottlieb
Summary:
Or: Newt and Hermann make dessert while being sappy

The beeping is insistent, piercing through the fog of sleep, and Newt lets out a grunt, fighting the urge to roll over and burrow his face in Hermann's shoulder. Instead, like a responsible adult––yes, he is occasionally a responsible adult, despite what Hermann says to the contrary––he forces his eyes open, stabbing at the screen of his phone to turn off the internal alarm. The sun filters through the window, partially obscured by the tulle curtains, and falls onto the cream sheets, dappled patterns softening Hermann in sleep.

He takes a moment to gaze at the other, somehow graceful in an awkward, endearing way, a smile curling at his lips, before he shakes him lightly, eliciting a muffled huff.

"Don' wanna ge' up," Hermann whines, voice sleep-addled. It's infuriatingly adorable. Regardless, they have things to do, places to go, people to meet––the war's over, sure, but they're hardly idly. Their part in cancelling the apocalypse saw to that.

Reaching for his glasses, Newt replies, soothingly, "I know, babe, but you've got that lecture at ten, remember? The one on Breach physics?" For a moment, there's silence before Hermann pulls the covers up and hides his face in his pillow.

"Why on earth did I agree to do that?" he grumps. Newt distinctly remembers that Hermann had originally been ready to toss the offer in the trash before Newt mentioned that Lars Gottlieb had recently been on the news mocking his research as inconsequential. Specifically, that is was "useless and of no import" and that "no reputable institution" would ask him to lecture on the subject.

Through a yawn, he says, "To prove your dad wrong."

"Hmm," Hermann hums, "and you didn't goad me in any way?"

"No!" Newt exclaims, pressing a hand to his heart dramatically, "I'd never!" Hermann snorts derisively. "Hey! Have a bit of faith in me, dude! Anyway, I seem to remember that someone stopped me from punching Liar––er, Lars last time we saw him, so..."

Okay, so they both have some latent anger towards Hermann's bastard father, but, like, it's hardly undeserved––the dude did call up his son the day after they cancelled the apocalypse to lecture him on how he could've ended it faster, never mind that Hermann was working his ass off on a practically nonexistent amount of funding whilst Lars ran around promoting his "Wall of Life" while badmouthing Hermann's work.

Newt has definitely never had to be physically restrained while around the man, no, never, him? Nah.

A hand on his shoulder brings him back to the present, and he blinks up at Hermann, who's managed to crawl out of bed and get dressed, so he must've been staring off into the distance for a while. "How do I look?" Hermann asks, fiddling with the cuffs of his jacket, uncharacteristically nervous.

Newt stands, smoothing the collar of Hermann's shirt, and presses a soft kiss to his cheek. "You look great, babe. You're gonna own this bad boy."

"By Jove, I'm going to own this thing for sure," Hermann replies, smiling at him, and Newt practically melts.

"Okay, alright, off you go, you sentimental sap," Newt urges, blinking rapidly, voice slightly choked. As he makes his way to the dresser to change into something a bit more suitable, Hermann finishes with his papers, clipping his bag shut and grabbing his cane. He stalls in the doorway, and then makes his way to Newt's side.

Hermann reaches for him, and Newt stills. Hermann gestures to a spot on his cheek. "You've got a smudge of charcoal right there, ah..." Newt rubs furiously, but to no avail, and Hermann sighs, pulling his handkerchief out, and wipes at the indicated area. "There, now, you're all ready," he says. Despite himself, Newt feels a blush.

"W––well, you'd better get going...don't want to be late," he stammers, flustered. Still, Hermann really should get going––after all, he's the one with the lecture to get to, not Newt. A smile tugs at Hermann's lips, and he steps away, casting a lingering look before he leaves.

Newt spends the day grading assignments from his students—xenobiology is a surprisingly attractive class, despite it mostly being theoretical now that, you know, the Kaiju have been kicked off of Earth—that he probably should've started the day before, but ignored in favor of some quality time spent cuddling with Hermann, who is surprisingly tactile.

It's weird, to be honest, how—naturally they slipped into this domesticity after the war, like it was an inevitability. Tendo certainly thought it was. Perhaps he's right—they spent almost a decade in each other's orbit—even if they weren't romantically involved, there's no one else who understands Newt the way Hermann does, and vice versa. Well, that does tend to happen when you literally telepathically link to someone, doesn't it?

When Newt gets through all of the papers, the sun's past its zenith, the plate of cookies he's been steadily munching on empty. He tips his chair back on two legs, stretching with a satisfying crack-crack-crack from his stiff spine, and rises, hunting through the kitchen for more cookies.

Hermann frequently scolds him for his sweet tooth, despite having one almost as large, so as a compromise, Newt's taken to cooking his own sweets, which mollifies the physicist at least slightly.

However.

There's just one problem.

He lays down on the floor, staring at the cupboard forlornly. Hermann nearly trips over him with a startled yelp, having gotten back in the time that Newt's been searching the kitchen.

"Newton," Hermann says, pinching the bridge of his nose, "what on earth are you doing on the floor?"

Newt lets out a theatric sigh. "We're out of dessert."

"What," Hermann asks, deadpan.

"We're out of dessert," Newt repeats dejectedly. "No cookies, no cake, no…nothing. Nada. Zip. Zero. Zilch."

"Yes, I heard you the first time," Hermann says, nudging at him with his cane. "I don't understand what that has to do with you sprawling across the kitchen floor, however."

"I'm sad, dude," Newt whines, batting at the cane. Hermann's eye-roll is impressive. "I don't have the energy to make any more,"

Instead of scolding him, however, Hermann simply says, "How about we make something together."

"Wait, really?" Newt asks, stunned.

"Mhm," Hermann nods, "give me a minute to get changed and then we can see what ingredients we have." A grin splits across Newt's face and he springs up, mind going a mile a minute as Hermann makes his way to the bedroom to procure more casual clothing,

As it turns out, they don't have the ingredients for cookies, but they do have the ingredients for chocolate mousse, which Newt hasn't made before but has the recipe for. He tasks Hermann with measuring—the man would go stir-crazy watching Newt eyeball the amounts—as he gets out the beaters, bowl, and sauce-pan.

Newt allows Hermann to nudge him to the side and place the chocolate, butter, and water into the sauce-pan before heading back to the refrigerator to grab the eggs. The silence is pleasant and undemanding, the two of them working in synchrony to create a light, chocolaty concoction that then gets poured into small serving bowls and placed in the refrigerator to set.

"Why do they have to be so small, though?" Newt questions.

"Because otherwise you'd eat too much and make yourself sick, liebling—there's half a stick of butter in there," Hermann shoots back, but doesn't resist when Newt steals the now-empty mixing bowl to scrape out the remainder. Newt grins at him cheekily.

After he washes his hands off, he leans in for a hug. "Thanks, Herms. That was fun."

"Of course, schatz," Hermann replies, warmly, carding a hand through his hair, and steals a kiss. "Besides, I'm sure it'll taste quite delicious."

Newt pulls him down for another, smiling against his mouth.