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He knows exactly what Vanessa is going to say as soon as she perches herself on the edge of their bed. The springs of the old matress squeak as they always do as she eases herself down, and in any other situation, he would be comforted by the sound, a reassuring constant since the first days of their marriage. Now, though, they only make him sad.
He knows what is coming, has known it from the moment he returned, held Vanessa among the bustling crowds of Heathrow expecting to feel happy and safe, and instead felt strange, alien, wrong. Her shoulders were to narrow, her hair too long, her voice too soft. He'd held her all the same, disgusted by how the touch of his wife, his beloved Vanessa, brought bile to his throat. Hating the reason.
He looks at her now, all soft curls and warm skin, big with their first child, and he desperately wishes he could reach out to her, feel her skin without the frission of wrongness that plagues him. Wishes he could smooth back her hair as he used to, kiss her again without the burning need for a different mouth, a different body under his hands. But he can't.
He sets down his book on his good knee, looks up and cannot meet her eyes. Cannot even look at her face without feeling as though he will crumble to nothing. He cannot see her expression, but when she speaks, the kindness in her voice makes him want to tear himself apart.
"Hermann, darling, this isn't working."
"Vanessa-"
"No. Please, let me. Let me say what I need to." She brushes her fingers across his open palm and he flinches. She sighs, but does not pull away.
"I... This is not working for me. Not anymore. I love you, Hermann, I always will, but... I just. I don't- can't love you in the way I need to to make this work. Do you understand?"
He understands as if he were saying her words himself. He nods shortly, hangs his head. Vanessa swallows, her throat clicking audibly, and continues.
"And this doesn't mean I don't... Don't want you in my life. You are Emma's parent just as much as I am and I can't imagine taking her away from you. I want to raise her with you, Hermann. Just... Just not together. Not like we are now. I can't do it. Not. Not what with..." She trails off, wiping a stray tear from her cheek. Smiling, she tightens her grip on his hand. Every atom in his body revolts against her touch, but he ignores it, lacing his fingers with her's, forcing himself to raise his eyes to her face.
"I cant compete, Hermann." A shaky breath, a humorless laugh. "At this point I'm not even in the running."
"Vanessa, I'm so sorry, I-"
She silences him by standing, smiling sadly as she does, and heads for the door.
"Please, Hermann, don't apologise. I know you mean it, but you don't need to. This is my choice."
She leaves then, and he watches her go, watches his marriage quietly fall apart at the seams. He wishes then that the world had ended, that he had let it go out in a blaze of extraterrestrial fire.
ooooo
Six months later, Hermann finds himself on a street corner in an aggressively suburban part of Braintree, Massachusetts. The air is cold, even for a Boston October, and he is very happy for thinking to bring his parka. Despite the chill, there is a thin mist of rain falling, and he wipes the drops from the screen of his phone to check the address one last time before heading down Sagamore Street. He stops in front of a quaint little colonial, no different on the outside from the seven others he passed, but distinct to him through a twenty-year-old memory that is not his own. The windows are dark and a bright halogen lamp on the corner of the garage lights a carless driveway, but Hermann can see the flashing colors of a television screen through the closed curtains of the front window.
A deep breath in, a long exhale, and he heads for the front door, heart in his throat. Before he even raises his hand to knock, it opens, and he is greeted by the tired face of Dr. Newton Geiszler.
Newt does not look at all surprised to find his erstwhile collegue standing on the front stoop of his parents house after eight months of minimal communication. Instead he smiles, softer than usual, opens the door wider and steps back into the hall.
"Hermann! Come on in. Takeout just got here."
Hermann steps gratefully out of the cold and struggles with his coat while Newt retreats to the kitchen, shouting a "I hope you like lomein, dude!" as he goes. Left in the foyer, Hermann breathes in the musty smell of mildewy carpets and dogs like he'll drown if he doesn't. Newt laughs at him from the doorway of the kitchen before crossing the hall, balancing two plates heaped with greasy Chinese food in one hand and carrying a six-pack of beer in the other.
"C'mon, Herms, commercial break's almost over."
Hermann follows him into the living room, sitting gingerly on the edge of the couch as Newt flops down beside him. He takes the beer that Newt offers him, and focuses on the grainy old monster movie playing on the TV.
They don't touch, don't even speak, but as Hermann sits there, internally laughing at the terrible special effects and knowing that Newt is doing the same, he feels like he has finally come home.