Chapter Text
Herbert can figure this out. He’s done it before. Moving continents might seem insurmountable to someone less organized and disciplined, but he’s competent. He has the necessary skill set. He will not be intimidated. Even if upon settling in their new house, he has realized that the… expedited nature of their departure from Switzerland means that they lack several crucial elements for their lab set-up. He bites his lip. It’s fixable. They beat death. Everything else should be a piece of cake.
“What is it, son?”
Herbert looks up from the box, which should contain all of their lab glass, neatly wrapped in newspaper, but instead, just has a single surviving graduated cylinder rising from a pile of shards and torn strips of newspaper, like a rat’s nest. He swallows and throws a glance over his shoulder at Hans Gruber. He’s sitting in on an armchair that Herbert dragged from a curb outside a student accommodation, head tilted towards the noise, eyebrows creased above the wrappings covering his eyes. Herbert never knew his grandfather, but ever since they left Zurich, Hans Gruber has been morphing more and more into the vague image he’s induced from pop culture. It’s truly heart-breaking how a minor mishap in an otherwise successful experiment can break a man’s spirit.
But at least Gruber isn’t withdrawing entirely, not if his supervision of the unpacking process is anything to go by. Not all hope is lost. Herbert wonders if a box full of lab glass has a specific noise, or at least one that differs from the disaster enough that Gruber can tell in what state their equipment is. He wouldn’t say that he’s glad that Gruber has lost his eyes during the reanimation, but, well. There are certain advantages to it.
Herbert clears his throat.
“Just a minor stumble,” Herbert assures, as smoothly as he can, flipping the flaps of the box closed. His knees creak as he gets up from his crouch to kick the box under the coffee table.
Gruber’s head immediately zeroes in on the shu-shur of cardboard on carpet. His, ah, personal research on whether the reagent provided any sense enhancements, on top of the benefits of improved energy levels, has been stymied. Gruber has suddenly become much more wary of Herbert taking a weakened dose every couple days, for reasons that aren’t exactly clear to Herbert. The experiment was, after all, a rousing success, no? Even if the fools at Univeristat Zurich failed to see it, Gruber must surely agree. But Herbert is not the principal investigator or lead researcher. He will respect the man’s expertise.
“Just a minor one?” Gruber asks, tone light. His smile is just as warm as it used to be.
“Nothing I can’t deal with,” Herbert confirms. He bites down on his cheek. What a mess. Their research has already been delayed by the move and Gruber needing clearance from the hospital after the eye thing. It’s best not to bring up the matter.
“I’m sure that’s true, you’re a very capable young man,” Gruber agrees. Herbert sniffs at the tinge of condensation he senses. Gruber laughs, shoulders shaking. “But just in case, I do think that there’s a lab catalogue somewhere in my room that I picked up the other day. Just in case you needed a place to start.”
Herbert twitches, cheeks blazing, feeling caught out. He knows that Gruber is not mocking or threatening, three years on —were he to fire Herbert from his assistant position, he would have done it already— but he can’t fully shake the nerves yet. It’s silly though. Unbecoming of a scientist. There’s no evidence to support that line of thinking. No, the man has not just expertise and a vision but also integrity. He respects Herbert’s skills.
“...Thank you,” Herbert finally says. He can’t help grousing a bit, though. “Although I don’t know if we should risk ordering from the same source as the Miskatonic University, given their standards.”
Gruber’s application to join the faculty has been thoroughly rejected. The dean was apologetic as he explained that they already had a dedicated team, and given Gruber’s recent health problems and loss of vision, even a grant would be unlikely. Gruber was fantastically understanding of the matter, much more magnanimous than Herbert would have been. To him, the apology smelled sour and fake, and he didn’t like the smug, condescending look on Carl Hill’s face one bit. As he stood behind Gruber’s chair, one hand on the backrest, he tried to glare the man down in an attempt to invoke some long-forgotten sense of shame, but to no avail. At least the effort wasn’t totally wasted; focusing on it allowed Herbert to ignore the accolades plastered across the dean’s office, all given to the dastardly plagiarist.
“You shouldn’t involve yourself in an old man’s bitterness, son.” Gruber sighs. He runs a hand through his white, wispy hair, flattening the dandelion-fluff to his skull. Herbert’s heart leaps into his throat just for a second; he looks frighteningly old. But they fixed it, he reminds himself. Just a few minor tweaks, and no one will need to die anymore. “The satisfaction of being proved correct in the lab is enough for me.”
Herbert squints, mouth drawing into a pout, as he imagines what would be enough for him. Personally, he would love to see Carl Hill’s head on a spike, the headless body dragged through the town square by a white horse, which perhaps he ought to be riding. He feels as though that would be a proportional and adequate reaction to the plagiarism and then subsequent blackening of Gruber’s reputation as a man going senile and fanciful in his old age. Naturally, Hill’s position as Miskatonic’s top brain death researcher would then go to Gruber. Should Miskatonic continue in their steadfast prejudice against the man, well, Herbert would graciously accept the position instead, and carry out the research for both their sakes.
“...I will call an order in,” Herbert agrees.
***
Since their work has stalled, Gruber has been spending his days in the backyard of their house. Herbert is starting to suspect that the unfortunate loss of vision he’s suffered is affecting him more than he’s initially let on. Of course, he understands the difficulties of adapting to it, but as he looks out through the kitchen window, a cold fear sinks in his stomach. Gruber is sitting in a deck chair, face turned towards the sun, doing god knows what. Listening to the birds, maybe. Observation of nature has pushed scientific progress before, he knows that, Darwin’s study of bird beaks moved his theory of evolution along. Herbert can hardly see what’s there to be gained from this, though. He squints into the greenery, but there’s nothing particularly interesting there: just a lush lawn, almost certainly kept this way with fertilizers and spraying, a long line of bushes lining the fence, and Hans Gruber reclining in the middle of it. He even has, god forbid, put on shorts and sandals, the scrap of his shins between the knee-long hems and the tall white socks thin and veiny. What a travesty, seeing a man completely burnt out of his passion.
But Herbert can fix it. He’s been sticking braille labels on things all morning. He made sure that the basement that’s going to become their lab space has a clear path from the stairs towards the table. He’s already used to narrating the experiments for the tapes, so keeping his voice loud and clear is not an issue; he can start reading the journals out loud, too. He will bring the man’s spark back.
Herbert startles when the doorbell rings, dropping his label maker. He creeps across the house, stopping only to grab a shovel from the umbrella holder. It’s good to be prepared. He wouldn’t put it past Carl Hill to harass them at their own home or to attempt to gain access to their research through unscrupulous means; the man was certainly devious and desperate enough for it.
The doorbell rings again, but Herbert doesn’t startle this time, oh no. He’s ready. He yanks it open in one sharp movement, the shovel out of sight but secure in his grip.
“Delivery!”
Herbert’s shovel clatters to the ground to free up his hands for grabbing. It’s not Carl Hill, so that’s all that matters. It’s his new lab glass, three boxes all labelled fragile, stacked on top of each other. Poor practice, perhaps, but at least the direction stickers have been respected. If this batch has also suffered in transit, Herbert is going to have firm words with the company. The set-up required for the work is complicated and has many delicate components, some requiring quartz, some borosilicate. Nothing but the best will do. He gets to ripping the tape off the first one, but a hand clamps around his wrist. His head snaps up in irritation; he needs to check on his order.
“Whoa, I need you to sign for it first.”
Herbert likes to think of himself as an objective, rational person. Unlike some of his colleagues, he values qualifications above all else, and does not let aesthetic matters sway his opinion. However, were he pressed for comment on the matter, well, he would have to admit that the… specimen, shall he say, in front of him elicits an unusual physiological reaction in him: a blood rush to his cheeks, elevated heart and respiratory rates, perhaps even a dilation of his pupils, but he has no way of verifying the latter.
“Hans Gruber…” The specimen says. He has a pleasant voice, even if his pronunciation is round and heavy with an American accent. He blinks —Herbert observes that his eyes are brown, and that he has long lashes, parameters which are irrelevant but nonetheless inscribe themselves in his memory— and then grimaces. “Ah, shit, I don’t speak any German. Um. English?”
He mimes a pen above his clipboard awkwardly enough for Herbert to snap out of whatever daze has come over him. Dear lord. Once more, his thesis that looks are not directly correlated to brains is confirmed. He clears his throat, embarrassment over this slip up in rationality burning the back of his neck.
“Yes,” Herbert says, a little waspish. He looks at the name patch stitched onto the uniform pocket. “Daniel, I speak English. Quite well. Does the addressee need to sign for it, or can I?”
“Um, Dan is fine,” Dan the Delivery Man stutters. He taps his pad. “Is he a relative? Your dad, or something?”
“Herbert!”
Hans Gruber is hobbling towards them, rounding the house, one hand stuck to the siding. Herbert yelps, and elbows Daniel out of the way to help stabilize Gruber. The skin of his bare elbow is thin and cool, marked with sun spots. Herbert feels a little weak. Should he have reminded Gruber to put on sunscreen?
“Where’s your cane?” Herbert asks instead. He continues, in German: “You could have injured yourself. I know you are re-adjusting, but—”
“Ah, it’s fine, it’s fine,” Gruber insists. He does not bat off Herbert’s hand, though, and, if Herbert was to guess, puts a little more of his weight into the hold. “Who’s there? A friend?”
Herbert scoffs. A friend. Hans Gruber has known him for three years, for more than two of which Herbert has resided under his roof. When has he ever been known to bring friends around?
“The delivery of our glass. You need to sign for it.”
“Ah!” Gruber beams. “Of course.”
Herbert watches Dan the Delivery Man keenly as he guides Gruber’s shaky hand towards the writing pad. He can’t spot anything untowards, just a kind understanding shining in those cow-brown eyes, a slight parting of the mouth. He has, Herbert once again unhelpfully notes, a rather fetching cupid’s bow.
“It’s kind of you to take care of your dad,” Dan the Delivery Man says. Herbert freezes. He should rebuke that. He’s not Hans Gruber’s legal son. He has no right to sign for packages for him. He has no claim to this imagined kindness. Hans Gruber is the brightest mind of his generation; of course Herbert needs to take care of him, not that he needs much of it. It’s a fair exchange of expertise and support between them.
“He can speak English,” Hans Gruber mutters, and punctuates the statement by clicking the pen off. “And he’s not so old as to be completely infirm, either, son.”
That last part is addressed to Herbert. Herbert gulps.
“I just mean that it would be a hindrance, should anything happen,” Herbert whispers back, in German. He glances at Dan the Delivery Man, who has some kind of look in his eyes. “I hardly trust the local hospital to be up to standards. After all, look at their staff. Any place that would hire the likes of—”
“Alright,” Gruber cuts him off. “Is the glass safe?”
Herbert, this time unburdened by Dan the Delivery Man’s wrist, continues the inspection of the glass. Professionally wrapped, clean, all as they ordered. He confirms it with a grunt.
“Go get my wallet, tip the boy,” Gruber instructs. “He’s done a good job.”
Dan the delivery man lights up. He has, Herbert has to admit, a nice smile. It’s a quality not completely irrelevant to his performance as a delivery man. Much, ah, more pleasant customer experience than their Zurich postman who’s threatened to throw Herbert’s packages at his head more than once.
“Thank you, sir, that is not necessary—”
“Nonsense,” Herbert says, already rising from his knees, dusting his hands off. “You did well. Perhaps we ought to request your services in the future.”
He only catches a glimpse of his face, but Herbert could swear that Dan’s face was dusted with pink. Terrible practice, he thinks, letting out delivery drivers without hats in this sun. Seems like a recipe for heatstroke. A regular hospital ought to be able to treat it no problem, but with the state that Miskatonic University Hospital seems to be, should they be overrun with fainting delivery men, well. Perhaps getting test subjects for further formula improvements will be shockingly easy.
Along with the ten dollars from Gruber’s wallet, he snags a squeeze tube of sunscreen and a bottle of water from the fridge. Competent people are hard to come by. Showing his appreciation will have returns in the future. It’s an investment into a reliable supply chain.
“--He’s a little, ah, odd,” he hears Gruber mutter. “But that’s all you young people these days, no?”
“Yessir,” Dan the Delivery Man agrees. “Being a little weird has never hurt nobody. I can make a note in the system about the packages, no problem.”
Herbert clears his throat. Dan the Delivery Man looks back at him. His face is even more pink. It must be the direct sun. Herbert tsks.
“Here’s your tip,” Herbert says. “And some provisions for the road. You really ought to take precautions against the sun. Heatstroke is no joke.”
“Um, thank you,” Dan the Delivery Man says. “Do you need help moving the boxes inside?”
Herbert purses his lips. Dan looks competent. There’s a hint of muscle straining against the short sleeves of his polo. He could probably move the boxes with no problem, gracefully manoeuvre down the stairs even with the tactile improvements Herbert has made to the steps. Herbert has no need for it, truth be told, but maybe it would be nice to watch him in motion, indulge a bit.
He glances over at Gruber. His face is cracked with the widest smile that Herbert has seen on it since the reagent has been proven to work.
“Ye—” Hans Gruber starts, tone far too jovial.
“No, thank you,” Herbert cuts him off. “You’ve done plenty.”
***
“You could have made a friend,” Gruber comments from his armchair as Herbert pants his way up the stairs. The crates are not that heavy, but having to take them down individually, one trip at a time, is making him sorely aware of just how little exercise he’s been getting. “He seemed like a nice young man.”
“Yes, competent, too,” Herbert agrees. He eyes the last box, still by the doorway, and instead chooses to collapse into the adjoining armchair. A spring digs into his sore back and he hisses. “But he’s on a schedule. Besides, the nature of our work demands strict confidentiality. Even if he lacks the… education necessary to understand it, the current state of the lab is rather morbid.”
“Mhm,” Hans Gruber hums. He folds his hands together, cracks his knuckles. “He’s a medical student at Miskatonic, supplementing his scholarship with this work. I’d say he’s plenty qualified to see its merits. But I digress. If you would rather not see him again…”
“I didn’t say that,” Herbert rushes in to assure. He swallows. A medical student. Smart. Capable hands. Pretty brown eyes. But, he reminds himself, a medical student at Miskatonic. He shrugs. “I bear no animosity towards him. I simply have no need for friends, especially not ones orchestrated for me.”
“Nothing like that,” Hans Gruber soothes. “You’re a very capable young man. It’s just, well, I am worried you might grow lonely with merely an infirm, old fool for company.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Herbert insists. He swallows, looks at Hans Gruber properly. His shoulders are unbowed, one still-sandaled foot tapping against the hardwood, hands intertwined in his lap. He does not look like any of the descriptors, except for maybe old, but Herbert would choose wisened instead. Herbert does miss the twinkle of his blue eyes, though, the scrunch of smile lines by his eyes that made reading mischief so easy. “I value your input greatly. I just worry sometimes.”
Hans Gruber hums again. “Unnecessary. I am doing well, son. Trust me. And if not me, then trust the work.”
“...Alright,” Herbert agrees, reluctantly. He does trust Gruber, and he does trust the work. He also trusts the assessment done by the hospital in Switzerland. They’re going to be okay. The melancholia Gruber’s been feeling will pass, eventually. He pats the armrest of his chair, gets up. “I should get back to work.”
Herbert heaves the glass up despite the muscles in his lower back protesting. He just about manages to take two wobbly steps down the stairs when Gruber’s voice reaches him:
“Was he cute?”
“Professor!” Herbert hisses, nearly dropping the lab glass and sending it shattering, again. God, how would he explain that?
Hans Gruber just laughs.