Curiosity, origin stories, family ties, and binders

Chapter 2: Curiosity, origin stories, family ties, and binders
==Meta==
There. The sort-of-handwavy science backstory is out of the way.
Why does Newt keep sitting on the floor when there’s a perfectly good bed, chair, or desktop handy, you ask? A little bit of psychology. He’s giving Hermann a dominant position to make him feel safer and more relaxed, more in control of what’s happening. In short, Newt’s trying to be extra kind and supportive, at the price of his own comfort, without throwing it in Hermann’s face.
I don’t know how it’s happening, but I’ve still got enough material left to craft at least one more chapter. Weird.
==Text==
Newt wakes cold and shivers, Hermann having withdrawn the warmth of his wing at some point.
"Oh, good," Hermann sighs from behind him, rolled eyes apparent in his voice. "I feared you planned to sleep all day."
"Cut me some slack, Hermann. I saved the world yesterday and starred at the party of the century. I can sleep late if I want." Newt stretches, hooking his fingers around the bars of the headboard, trying to pull the ache out of his back. "I’m sure you have incredibly detailed and exciting plans for your first day as the guy who saved the guy who saved the world, probably involving math and chalk."
"It is a comfort to see probable brain damage has not affected your inflated sense of self-importance," Hermann replies dryly. Newt rolls over and punches him gently on the shoulder in mock indignation. Hermann glares at him and elbows him in the stomach hard enough to make Newt’s eyes water. "I’m not going to the lab today," Hermann continues. "All of yesterday’s excitement has left me much too sore to be productive. My time is best spent resting." He props himself up on his elbows. "Now, would you kindly get out of my way so I may go about my morning?"
"Dude, why didn’t you just climb over me?" Newt asks as he gingerly sits up in deference to his slightly spinning head and eases himself off the mattress to stagger across the small room and lean against the desk.
"I didn’t want to wake you. I’m aware of the fact you hadn’t slept in fifty-three hours before last night."
Newt blinks. "You were counting?" he asks and Hermann shrugs in response before grabbing his cane and limping to the bathroom. As he goes, Newt notices the stripe of of downy white feathers along his spine from the nape of his neck to his waistband. No wonder he does up the top button. I wonder if they're soft.
"There is orange juice in the fridge and instant coffee and an electric kettle in the cupboard above the sink," he says over his shoulder as he closes the door.
When Hermann re-emerges a few minutes later he leans heavily on his cane and flexes his wings to their full extent, then pushes them through two lazy beats, moving a puff of stale Shatterdome air through the small space of his quarters. Crossing the room, he settles into the desk chair backwards, rests his arms on the back, and drops his chin onto them. He spreads his three-quarters open and flexes them intermittently as he watches Newt sip his coffee.
Newt arranges himself on the floor, knees drawn up and back against the closet door. "Okay. I’m dying from curiosity, here, and I really, really, really don’t want to pry—okay, I totally do—but if you want to, you know, talk about it, I’m completely willing to listen."
"You’re going to be insufferable until I do, aren’t you?"
"More than likely. I mean, I’m staring at something extraordinary and, as a scientist, it’s sort of my deal to investigate and learn freakin’ everything I can. Or everything you’ll tell me without having to kill me." "Plus it’ll distract me from my hangover. I don’t know where Tendo got that stuff, but it hit like a Jaeger … ." He lets his head loll back and squeezes his eyes shut.
"Fine. I suppose I’ll have to if I want to maintain my sanity." Hermann closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "These," he begins as he stretches the wings to their full extent, "are not the result of mutation or alien interference any other comic book fantasy you may be harboring. I’m not one of your ‘X-Men’. I’m the creation of a geneticist."
"Someone did … this? Thirty-six years ago? We weren’t even cloning sheep back then!" Newt yelps as soon as he fights through his momentary shock. "Or did they, like, artificially age you and you’re really only a teenager? Which would make it so much weirder that you act like you’re ninety. And that you were writing such great letters to me as an infant."
"I am exactly as old as I claim to be," he answers. "My mother was a … brilliant woman. She used herself as a test subject in her research into cross-species gene splicing and activation. I’m her greatest success," he spits with more bitterness than Newt has ever heard him summon. "She built me. I am essentially her clone with a few … ah, tweaks."
"Duuude." Newt doesn’t bother to hide his amazement. "She cloned a human thirty-six years ago?! And somehow managed to splice in owl genes to create functional wings?! Why doesn’t she have a Nobel Prize? Why isn’t every biologist using her techniques? I would give an arm to know how she did this!"
"Thankfully for your manual dexterity, she destroyed her research notes soon after my birth," Hermann snaps. "My father did not … approve of her experimentation on humans. She thought he would relent and throw his support behind her when he saw ‘his’ beautiful winged son." He shakes his head. "She was desperately wrong. My father threatened to expose her if she tried again and forced her to purge all of her equipment, samples, and notes. She died young and all her knowledge was lost with her."
"Oh, man. What a loss. Still, no wonder you’re so brilliant, sharing those genes. Jesus."
Hermann stiffens and glares at Newt, wings flaring slightly. "I am not a simulacrum. I am my own person."
"No shit. Obviously." Newt holds up his hands in a placating gesture. "I’m just sayin’ … ," he says and pauses to collect his thoughts. "I get it, though, sort of. It’s like all the people who assume I have perfect pitch because of my parents when I can’t carry a tune to save my life. Genes aren’t destiny; They’re potential. And you have definitely exploited that potential, Hermann."
"I … uh … thank you, Newton," Hermann replies quietly, a slight blush sneaking across his cheeks.
Newt’s eyes suddenly widen and he asks "This have anything to do with your father’s deal with you?"
Hermann nods. "He considers me an abomination, if an occasionally useful one. I think he was relieved when I elected to remain with the Jaeger program. He finally had a socially acceptable reason to shun me."
"‘Abomination’? Dude, that’s harsh. How can a father think something like that?"
"He’s not genetically my father, remember?" He smiles ruefully. "Besides, you’ve met the man. Holding such depth of loathing for another human being is not unusual for him." Newt snorts a laugh in agreement and Hermann matches it. "I suppose we should defer the rest of this conversation in order to eat something. I’m afraid I have nothing suitable on hand, so we’ll need to dress and make our way to the mess hall."
"Oh, man. Let’s just go in our jammies. Everyone’s going to be too busy or hungover to notice or care." Hermann clears his throat and waves his wings meaningfully. "Oh, right. You need to get dressed. I’m staying like this. Can I borrow your slippers?"
Without waiting for an answer, Newt fumbles on his hands and knees for what he vaguely remembers is a pair of plaid slippers like his grandfather would have worn. He cheers weakly when he finally locates the footwear.
After he scrambles out from under the bed, he watches with open fascination as Hermann deftly arranges a garment made of elasticized fabric and a few straps and buckles over his wings and across his chest. He cinches it tight, pressing his wings nearly flat to his back. The construction and effect reminds Newt of the binders some of his friends used, but … meaner.
"God, that looks like it hurts," he finally blurts.
Hermann starts a little midway through pulling on his undershirt. "It is comfortable enough."
"Well, if you’re not totally opposed to the idea, I’m going to rig up something better for you."
"After lunch," Hermann corrects as he finishes layering up for the day.
"Well, of course," Newt says, offering his arm.
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