Newton rolls up his sleeves and slaps on some gloves and doesn't even think of it, the first time Dr. Gottlieb sees his tattoos; god knows everybody else in the Corps has seen them by now. They're working in close range, it's a hundred degrees in here even with climate controls, and it's all Newt can do not to take his shirt off. It's the way his comrade pauses at first that gives Newton the tipoff that he's being observed. Most of their specimens have some crazy colors, and it's hard to miss the riot of smooth lines and shading marking his forearms. (He even smuggled in some samples to the tattoo artist to get the colors right, once they started letting him touch what he worked on.)

He's braced for some kind of criticism, at least; good old Hermann has no problem being mouthy in the lab and his lovingly designed ink never fails to get some reaction out of people; less and less laughter, innocently piqued curiosity from the ladies, more and more anger. Conversation pieces, a constant reminder of who the bad guys are, who he is and what he loves and everything he knows. Something he wears on his sleeve. So to speak.

Gottlieb reaches out and grasps Newton's forearm very gently indeed, inadvertently steadying the massive chunk of Jaeger engine he's holding. (Pity it's not a massive chunk of Kaiju guts. The gloves are for the Jaeger's safety, not Newt's.)

"They're beautiful," he finally says. "Beautiful draftsmanship. Remarkable."

Hermann's fluttering hands aren't the most elegant things in the world, and right now they're covered in chalk, but his thumb roves over the careful outlines. 'Onibaba', Tokyo, Category II, 2016. Newt can tell him all about her, all about Tokyo, about coming back to the tattoo parlor again and again for four-hour sessions of cocksure banter through gritted teeth (and sure, he cried, once, tears of joy seeing those babies right where they should be, in full color and on his skin) but something's going on in Dr. Gottlieb's head right now that he's not allowed access to.

Newt didn't realize just what an impression his sleeve tattoos had made apart from the usual derision (derrrrrision, somebody get him to stop rolling his R's) until Hermann gives in and kisses his forearm. They're in bed when it happens, just in bed, all wrapped up in one another -- he'll go out on a limb and say this isn't Gottlieb's first relationship with a guy, he's all dorky and pockmarked but he knows his way around. They fit together like nested parts of the same machine, carefully measured to interlock in the right places; in terms of personality they're still oil and water but he's never wanted anything more than this bony stiff body pressed against his own, their synchronous heartbeats and the steadiness of his uncomplaining breath.

Gottlieb's mouth fixes on the tender skin of his inner arm, pressing with teeth and the tip of his tongue along the edge of a Kaiju design, the twisting track of a tentacle. He nips, a sharp blip of pain registers and Newton grumbles his complaint. (Can he feel Newton's pain? What are the parameters of this thing? They're hooked into it now, it's like a scar on his brain -- the remnants of the Drift are still in his head, electric prickles when he catches Gottlieb looking his way when his back's turned. He knows for certain he feels the good stuff, sneaky sensations of pleasure that's certainly not his own -- call it an incentive, something that makes getting over himself and just touching him, just kissing him, a lot easier. There's a whole lot of gossip about the sex lives of Jaeger pilots, and they might not be technically qualified, but preliminary tests are producing some great results.

Hermann turns his head and nuzzles his bicep adoringly. ('Scissure', coast of Australia, Category II, 2013.) Newt grumbles a little more, but it makes his cock twitch anyway. Maybe he'll get some commemorative ink done next, now that they have downtime for once in their miserable lives. Maybe Gottlieb can watch.