#god forbid hermann allows himself to be WORRIED about newt

[skellabelle]

Hermann does not appreciate Newt’s repeated attempts to get himself killed

Newt is just enjoying the attention

[hermannsthumb]

18. wine tasting that leads into 9. Ghost tour, drunk ghost tour!!!

from autumn fic meme here: 18. wine tasting + 9. ghost tour

this one was especially fun bc i am a biggggg fan of ghost tours myself, and i got to make up a bunch of fake lore for the “haunted house” hehe. you can decide where this is set……. (content warning for alcohol!)

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One of the rare occasions that Hermann actually acknowledges that he and Newt are a thing and lets Newt use romantically-coded words like boyfriend or love or feelings to refer to the two of them–instead of just a terse and incredibly vague this is my partner, Newton when he needs to introduce him to a colleague at work–is on their anniversary. Not that he’ll call it their anniversary, of course. It’s always that time of year again or their special day or flowers thrust quickly at Newt and a kiss pressed to his cheek while he’s brushing his teeth in the morning. Anniversary is too serious. Too intimate. And God forbid Hermann Gottlieb be intimate with someone; it took a month after they got together for him to even take his shirt off in front of Newt. Newt doubts he’ll even let him use the word when they eventually get hitched.

Anyway, it’s that special Time of Year again, Their Day, and Newt has taken it upon himself to book them a weekend getaway. Their first weekend getaway. Usually, for Their Day, they just sit at home and make out or something until their forgotten dinner burns in the oven, but Newt’s determined for them to start acting like an actual couple. Actual couples do things for their anniversaries, like go out to fancy overpriced restaurants. Or have beach vacations. Or rent a room in a cozy mountainside inn (surrounded by beautiful autumn foliage) for a weekend for a wine tasting.

“Yes,” Hermann says, “but most couples don’t go out of their way to hunt down a wine tasting in the most–allegedly–haunted inn possible.”

“That’s because most couples are boring,” Newt says. “We’re not boring. We’re cool.” He clinks his wine glass against Hermann’s. “And don’t say allegedly. It is haunted. I did my research.” He takes the suggested tiny sip of his wine (a sweet dessert wine that tastes more like straight-up honey than any wine Newt’s ever had before) and forces a measure of false casualness into his voice. “They, uh, have ghost tours and everything.”

Hermann groans and sets his glass down. “Oh, Newton, you didn’t.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Newt says.

Newt does know, and he did. Wine tastings are fun and all, and it’s a nice excuse to get Hermann to gussy up a little (because that grey suit he’s rocking tonight combined with his tidied hair is making Newt feel all kinds of hot and bothered) but they’re also a little boring. And gross. Spitting into a bucket for two hours while a bunch of wine snobs sniff their glasses and eat tiny crackers? Boring. Newt’s preferred method of ingesting wine is sticking a curly straw into a box of Sunset Blush Franzia and waking up on the bathroom floor twelve hours later. He just thought–well–he could spice up the experience a little. Especially since it’s October. People do these sorts of things in October. It’s seasonably appropriate.

“Look,” Newt says. “The ghost tour starts at eight, right when this ends, and it’s only an hour. Only around the inn. I already bought us tickets when I booked the place–”

“Newton,” Hermann groans again.

“–but we don’t have to do it!” Newt says, in a way that makes it clear he’d really like to do it. “I just thought it could be fun.”

Hermann scowls at him a bit more, but his shoulders sag. Probably doesn’t care enough to put up more of a fight. “We have a gas fireplace and a bathtub the size of a bloody swimming pool in our suite,” he says, “and you’d rather creep around in the dark and play paranormal investigator. I shall never understand you, Newton.” He takes a long sip of his wine. He doesn’t spit this one out. “I’ll be picking where we go next year. Now fetch us more red.”

“Next year,” Newt echoes happily.

“Don’t push your luck,” Hermann warns.

They have more red, and then they have more white, and then they round it out with some rose, by which point Hermann seems to have given up all pretenses of the tasting factor. Hermann is not tasting; Hermann is imbibing. Copiously. “I revoke my earlier complaints,” Hermann declares, after sloshing half a glass of prosecco down his poor clean shirt and grey suit, “this is a marvelous idea, Newton. I’m–” He sloshes more prosecco onto the tablecloth. “Enjoying myself. A great deal.”

Oh, jeez. “Oh, jeez,” Newt says. “Hey, babe, uh, maybe you should lie down for a bit, before–”

“No,” Hermann says. “I feel very fine. You ought to try this.”

He swings his glass towards Newt, and refuses to allow him to push it away until he’s had a sip. “It’s good,” Newt says, because of course it is–every single bottle here has been fucking great, and fucking expensive, as shit. He gets another taste of it (and about three other wines) a second later when Hermann swoops in and kisses him with no small amount of tongue. “Hermann,” he mumbles, “people are staring.”

Tipsy Hermann is a different breed of Hermann that never ceases to straight-up weird Newt out. It’s like all Hermann’s carefully constructed layers of repression finally unravel like a ball of yarn, like someone’s finally popped his cork and tossed out his filter and let every single mushy, horny thought he’s ever had come pouring out. Tipsy Hermann is handsy. Tipsy Hermann is flirty. Tipsy Hermann calls Newt things like lover and pretty thing and even just ooh, Newton with a little giggle and twirl of Newt’s hair.

Newt thinks he probably should’ve been keeping a closer eye on how much Hermann was drinking; he thinks this especially when they move on from the tasting (with two newly purchased, at Hermann’s insistence, and unopened bottles of the prosecco in Newt’s tote bag) to the ghost tour, and Hermann can barely keep himself upright, even with all his weight shifted to his cane, and Newt has to practically hold him. He’s going to be pissed at Newt for his hangover tomorrow. Because of course he’ll blame Newt.

Their tour guide is a young woman, probably an undergrad at the nearby college working the gig part time, dressed up in old-timey Victorian-looking clothing with an actual lit candelabra. She seems to enjoy her job, at least: she explains the logistics of the tour with a lot of enthusiasm and a lot of wild, animated gestures. (It’s an hour long, they’ll be walking up and down no more than two flights of stairs, one of the tour’s usual stops will be off-limits tonight due to construction, please silence your cell phones, she’s excited to be their hostess tonight!) “You sure you can manage?” Newt whispers to Hermann.

Hermann reaches up and tugs at Newt’s earlobe. “Certainly,” he says.

A hard maybe.

Their tour guide leads them to the narrow front lobby, and they file in in a circle around her as she begins to explain the inn’s origin. It was built in 1823 as a manor; it was converted into the building it is now during the 1870s; the room they’re in now was originally the parlor. “The painting above the fireplace is as old as the house,” she says. “It’s been hanging in that same spot since 1823.”

“Bloody ugly painting,” Hermann snorts.

Newt swats at Hermann. “Dude,” he hisses back.

“I’m only saying,” Hermann says. “They ought to burn it.”

Their tour guide didn’t hear, thankfully, and has gone on into describing the paranormal events of the former parlor. “You can still catch whiffs of his cigar smoke,” she says (referring to the original owner, whose name Newt missed, thanks to Hermann), “and some people have even claimed to spot a dark figure sitting in the armchair in the corner–” It’s faded emerald and ratty as hell, with a small velvet rope blocking it off from the rest of the newer furniture, “–also an original piece of the house, and his favorite spot while he was alive.”

The tour guide leads them down to the creepy basement next (haunted by the ghost of a former maid who’d been brutally murdered by the eldest son of the house–her lover–in 1859 and buried there), up to the kitchen (where servant bells still go off, despite the system being nonoperational and purely for show since the ‘70s), over to the bar (hidden behind a sliding wall throughout Prohibition and only recently re-discovered, where stools move on their own and translucent patrons flit around after closing) up more stairs to the former master bedroom-turned-unoccupied grand suite (where faucets turn on by themselves and strange shadows glide across the antique mirror), down the hall to the nursery-turned-honeymoon suite (where toys turn up out of thin air and ghostly babies cry in the middle of the night).

“‘S all rubbish,” Hermann declares at that bit. Still not loud enough for their tour guide to hear–not yet, anyway–but loud enough that a handful of people in their immediate vicinity turn and frown at him. “Ghosts are rubbish. Not real. I reckon they put--” He waves his hand. “Speakers, in the vents.”

“We fought off giant interdimensional aliens,” Newt says, grinning despite himself, “and ghosts are what you have a problem with?”

Hermann immediately gets snooty. “Kaijus–” (Newt cringes, because come on, how many times does Newt have to explain you don’t need the s?) “–had a logical reason for being here. And there was proof. Loads of it.”

“Stop being such a buzzkill,” Newt laughs. “This is just for fun, dude. No one gives a shit about proof.”

“That much is obvious,” Hermann sniffs.

“Is there a problem?” their tour guide suddenly says. She looks completely earnest, too, not angry at them for talking–like she’s genuinely worried Hermann’s upset or offended about something. 

“No,” Newt cuts in quickly. He wraps his arm around Hermann’s waist and pinches his side to shut him up. It has the opposite effect of what he wants: Hermann doesn’t look affronted, but instead, very pleased at the sudden touch, snootiness evaporating. Of course. “Forgive my partner. We, uh, just got done with the wine tasting, and he missed the memo on spitting.” He cracks another grin.

There’s a small chuckle throughout the crowd that turns awkward fast when Hermann turns to him and says, in a faux whisper (too loud, too flirty, face too close to Newt’s), “I thought you preferred when I swallow.”

Newt chokes on air; he turns bright red. “Hermann!”

The tour ends on a mildly disappointing note. Their guide takes them up to the attic and passes around quote-unquote EMF detectors, with the promise that almost every group (to date) has caught something up here with them, but after twenty minutes of waving the little boxes around with not even the smallest beep it’s very clear their group will not be joining that number. If Hermann was sober, he’d probably say I told you so. He’s not, so instead, Newt says goodbyes and thank-yous for both of them, and Hermann collapses face-first into their ridiculous canopy bed almost the very second Newt gets him through the door of their suite. He doesn’t even bother to take off his shoes first. Or drop his cane--he’s still gripping the handle.

Newt shucks off his docs and tie, moves Hermann’s cane to rest against the clawfoot bedside table, and flops down next to him. He pokes Hermann’s shoulder. “You are not allowed to blame me for this tomorrow,” he says. “You got it?”

“Whatever for?” Hermann mumbles, sleepily, into his pillow.

“The hangover you’re absolutely going to get,” Newt says, “and for dropping sex life bombs on a group of strangers. That was all you, buddy. All you.”

Hermann turns on his side to face Newt, though he doesn’t bother opening his eyes. “You’re being awfully loud. Will you turn off the light, please?”

“Ugh. Fine.”

Newt has to shuffle all the way across the room to switch off the ancient floor lamp, and by the time he gets back, Hermann is already halfway to snoring, mouth open, drool at the corner of it, dress shirt rucked up from his waistband. It’s impossible to stay mad at him when he looks this cute. “I love you, you weirdo,” Newt says fondly, and leans in and kisses his forehead.

“Mm,” Hermann agrees.