Sorry About Your Parents

Dieter was trying his best to extend an olive branch in Lucas's direction, but he'd run into one unfortunate roadblock: Lucas was still Lucas, which made being amiable a massive pain in the ass.

Maybe he was just being too hard on the guy—surely it isn't easy to go from being a massive prick your entire adult life to being a semi-respectable member of society, particularly under borderline warfare conditions. And in all fairness, Lucas had gotten much less oppressively terrible to be around since the men's little heart-to-heart in the hangar three nights ago. Sure, he was still standoffish and vulgar, but at least he was keeping most of his thoughts behind gritted teeth instead of spewing whatever excruciatingly obnoxious opinions he had at whoever ended up on his warpath.

Yeah, it was the bare minimum, but everybody had different minimums anyway. Dieter was understanding, even if it did deeply vex him. Change takes time. People take time.

He repeated this mental mantra to himself as he knocked on Lucas's door with his shoulders tensed, bracing himself for whatever unpleasantries Lucas would surely be berating him with shortly.

"It's unlocked," shouted from behind the garage door, is all he gets. For now. Dieter lets himself in.

Lucas is hunched over his workstation, attempting to sort whatever clusterfuck of various bullets he's managed to scrounge up into organized containers.

"Am I interrupting anything?"

Lucas cranes his neck to face Dieter over his shoulder, with a deeply unsatisfied look on his face. Dieter can practically read his mind as he opens his mouth to reply, then quickly shuts it, pressing his lips into a tight line and pondering for a moment.

Yeah. Of course you're fucking interrupting something, like always, is what Lucas is about to say, and based on Dieter's pursed lips, he's expecting as much.

"Nothing important," is what he actually says, and Dieter looks somewhere between pleasantly surprised and relieved. "What's up?"

Dieter shrugs his shoulders softly, releasing some of his pent-up nerves.

"I wanted to chat, if you have time."

Now it's Lucas's turn to be surprised. The two had settled on civility, not being idle chatter buddies. When Lucas turns his body to face Dieter, bracing against his workbench, he looks slightly unnerved. His brow is furrowed, and he clings to the edge of the bench just a little too hard to be casual.

"What about?" He sounds legitimately bemused, and he's staring Dieter down for any sort of 'tell.' The guy walks around rubbing Lucas's nose in the fact that he's just that much better of a person for almost their entire acquaintance, chameleons his way into a friendship with almost everyone else here for no discernible reason at all, suddenly offers him a beer and a heart-to-heart to wrench out whatever little details about his psyche he can, goes out of his way to suck up to him for three days, and now wants to sit alone and chat? It's bizarre. It feels like such an obvious setup that it baffles him. Surely the guy isn't actually cocky enough to think Lucas is going to fall for... whatever this is.

Dieter just shrugs again and offers a little head tilt.

"Nothing in particular. I just thought I'd check in," he says so casually that it's infuriating, and when Lucas continues to squint at him with increasing suspicion, he awkwardly rubs the back of his own neck and adds, "I noticed you've been quiet lately. It's weird. I thought I should make sure you didn't get a body double or something while we weren't looking, ja?"

He chuckles softly, trying to keep up a peaceful, casual demeanor. Lucas looks unconvinced and entirely unamused.

"Thought you said you wanted me to be better. Figured that meant keeping my mouth shut," he shoots back, crossing his arms across his chest.

Oops. Mission failed. Dieter contemplates abandoning the attempt at making peace and just retreating back to his hangar.

But he's already here, and it's not like Lucas could hate him more than he already did—he hoped, at least. So he tries another approach.

"We—Dalisay and Camilo and I—were going to go have a few beers by the lake tonight. Do you want to come with us?" He offers up his best forced-but-pretending-it-isn't smile. Lucas looks bewildered, rolling on his feet.

"I don't drink, remember?" He scowls. Dieter shoves his fidgety hands into his pockets.

"I know, but I thought I'd check and see if you wanted to hang out anyway. Might be a little less jumpy all the time if you've got some friends out here."

Lucas briefly considers threatening to knock him out for being so blatantly obvious about whatever he was setting him up for, but stops to consider the offer.

Lucas never wanted to be alone, per se. It was more like he was too bothered by the inconvenience of building a friendship to bother not being alone, and he certainly didn't have the self-control to keep his often angry outbursts to himself long enough to form a friendship organically—nor was he interested in doing as much. Dieter, conversely, acted like making friends was his only reason for showing up. He came in all smiles and jokes, with that stupid smug look on his face and those dumb sunglasses and slicked-back hair, oozing charisma like some kind of high-class hooker. Lucas didn't buy it at all. He was so obviously out of place here, and his constant chatter and overly relaxed demeanor grated on Lucas's nerves in seconds. It was so disturbingly fake, and nobody else seemed to catch on. Within days Dieter was practically tied at the hip to Dalisay, much to Lucas's chagrin, and Camilo quickly latched on to them both shortly after.

Despite being a rambunctious little twit with that vexing fish-out-of-water look to him, Camilo was never on Lucas's radar enough to warrant hating him. That said, he wasn't spared from Lucas's cutting commentary, and he had more than enough attitude in him to lash right back—often with Dieter at his side, infuriatingly.

Dalisay, though, was probably the only person here that Lucas couldn't say he technically disliked in any meaningful way. Her ostensible need to make herself a moral beacon in spite of their situation was tiring, but at least he could respect the way she stubbornly refused to yield on her opinions. Even if it was too holier-than-thou for him, at least she seemed genuine about her motivations. Dieter struck him as far too passive to truly believe in whatever he was rallying for on any given day. Unfortunately, Dalisay was also almost undeniably fucking Dieter, which made her look incredibly naïve to Lucas and made Dieter just that much more unbearable to share the air with.

"I'm not fun at parties," is the response he settles on, turning his back to Dieter to continue with his half-hearted organizing. Dieter snickers.

"You've been invited to parties?"

Lucas whips back around, and Dieter is already awkwardly wringing his hands in front of him and visibly scrambling to find a way to walk the comment back.

"Sorry. Bad wording. German's a much more blunt language, you know?" He smiles nervously, and Lucas rolls his eyes so hard he sees stars. Dieter says it with such a playful lilt that he could almost buy into his 'silly old me' act, but he's seen how the German operates under pressure—he's quick-witted, frustratingly so, and never once has he heard him be anything other than well-spoken and succinct in English. In fact, he'd argue Dieter had a much more expansive and educated vocabulary than the average fluent speaker—he always spoke with a relaxed, casual tone, but used very niche and colorful terms. The nuance between the two languages never seemed to faze him.

He wasn't uneducated. He was just a tool, and it seems like he's quick to fluster when faced with somebody who sees through the act. It's incredibly satisfying to watch him squirm in the uncomfortable silence that follows.

Lucas shrugs his shoulders right back at Dieter, mimicking his usual lackadaisical stance. He'll let the man squirm.

"I had a life before this, jackass," he snickers back, and Dieter sighs, glancing tensely up at the high ceiling as he tries to figure out the best way to salvage this discussion without snapping.

"Right. I guess nobody's at their best under these conditions, so who knows what we're all like in our free time." He stretches his arms above his head with a way-too-fake yawn, the sleeves of his jacket slipping down and offering just the slightest peek of his bony wrists, and Lucas zeroes in on a particularly distinct scar that piques his interest. He realizes he's never seen Dieter without either the jacket, sleeves, or his mid-forearm length gloves on, and the scar catches him off-guard—the rest of Dieter seems so bizarrely pristine and unscathed. Something about seeing an actual mark on him, some human distinction, feels reassuring. It chips away at the flawlessly inhuman grandiosity he radiates in his stupid sunglasses and unbothered coolness. He's not quite so unbearably untouchable. He bleeds like everybody else, despite his efforts to fake his way into convincing everybody that he doesn't. If the tension in the room wasn't already so sharp, Lucas might've had the nerve to ask about it.

He wonders what it feels like, to be able to sell an image of invulnerability and nonchalance so well that the sheer idea of being tangible enough to get hurt is hard for others to comprehend. It only bolsters his envy. He has the oddest desire to see more, to see the length of the scar the blonde kept so carefully hidden away—to see any more hints of human fault, of pain, of relatability within the other man. To see how deep the flaws run, and just how much he hides.

Dieter rolls his shoulders and readjusts his shirt.

"The offer is still on the table, anyway." He's back to his usual nonchalant cadence, neither inviting nor discouraging. Purely unbothered. Ugh.

"I'll think about it," Lucas announces curtly before returning to his work. Dieter sighs in relief. He glances around the room, taking in the meticulously organized assortment of half-finished projects and weaponry. There's stuff everywhere, but everything is laid out in such a distinctly controlled pattern, easily accessible enough for Lucas to jump from one project to the next in seconds should he ever get bored of his current task. Their workspaces both manage to be the exact opposite of their outward images, he muses to himself—Dieter was so calculatedly charming and in control of any situation he got himself into, with such casual apathy you'd think everything was going to plan for him. His hangar, though? It was a shitshow. Long-abandoned passion projects he'd started before dropping in various states of completion were left on display as a testament to his fickle nature, and any organizational system he tried to implement was quickly disregarded. Tools sat haphazardly wherever he happened to decide he was done with them, and finding something out of place was the expectation, not the exception. Anyone other than Dieter himself couldn't tell heads from tails when it came to whatever was going on in there, but it worked for him. He thrived in what he considered his 'little organized pockets of chaos.' Meanwhile, Lucas, the snappy, impulsive, unpredictable force of a man, was scrupulous about his work. He might literally or metaphorically explode without warning, but he'd be damned if he'd leave a wrench sitting on the table when he was done with it.

"Pretty nice setup you've got," Dieter gestures broadly towards everything. "Very... Professional."

"Can't do good work in a shitty workspace," Lucas grumbles.

"I get by," Dieter shrugs, and Lucas snickers under his breath again.

"Whatever you say, man."

Dieter's really not sure if he should just leave him alone, or keep trying to elicit any sort of real discussion out of the other man.

Continuing their awkward shuffle of civility through gritted teeth and clenched jaws every day is getting to him, though, and he really can't stomach the amount of tension. They can't keep up this dysfunctional dynamic; Jesse's death left no doubt in the air about the stakes, and it was immediately clear to Dieter that continuing to clash was going to get them all killed if they weren't on the same page. One way or another, they all needed to function as a team; it was the only shot they had. Strength in numbers was the only thing they had going for them, and another argument could be life or death. Again. Whether he liked Lucas or not, they needed some modicum of understanding of one another if they were going to cooperate well enough to survive this.

Lucas did not seem to care particularly much. That was unsurprising, because Dieter can't recall a single moment where Lucas has cared about anything at all; he seemed to survive purely in defiance of death rather than a will to live. Dieter knows just how exhausting it is to live that way under normal circumstances, let alone true life-or-death ones. Not that he'd ever give somebody that information, especially Lucas.

But personally, he's tired of living for the sake of not dying. He'd like to enjoy living to see another day, and he's confident everyone else here would like to wake up without a bullet in their head, too.

He'd like to think the same about Lucas, but given his consistent risky and excessive behavior, he's quite certain Lucas couldn't care less about the possibility of dying. If Lucas weren't such a dick, he'd pity him.

And maybe he does truly pity him, if only a little. Maybe it does nip at his heart just the tiniest bit to see another person so furious that they'd set themselves on fire just to scorch the ground they stand on. Maybe he feels just a little nagging distress when he sees Lucas ready to rip himself to shreds just to show that he's capable.

Whatever.

Lucas has been quietly sorting his things, oblivious to Dieter's dilemma. Finally content with the state of his workbench, he turns to the taller man again, a little more relaxed this time.

"Are you, like, waiting for me to decide right now, or...?"

Dieter snaps out of his thoughts, shaking his head nervously.

"No. Just admiring the space."

There's that stupidly saccharine smile. It puts Lucas on edge just how genuine the expression feels. Dieter's motivations haven't gotten any clearer since their last discussion, and he can't wrap his head around it. Why does he look so infuriatingly kind when he's so obviously hiding something? How does he come off so genuine while keeping his thoughts so close to his chest? And most frustrating of all, why does Lucas want to trust him?

Why is he legitimately considering Dieter's offer? Why does he want to make peace with somebody when he doesn't believe a word they say?

What is Dieter even trying to gain?

That's what discomforts him so deeply. If he has no idea what makes him tick, how's he supposed to know what he's trying to achieve? What's he trying to get out of him?

What kind of value could somebody like him possibly have for somebody like Dieter?

He doesn’t know. For once in his life, he truly does not know.

And that’s terrifying.

“You cleaned the place up pretty well, all things considered,” the blonde continues, and Lucas is tapping a finger on his thigh at lightspeed to quell his nerves.

“I try to stay on top of it,” he mumbles, afraid that if he speaks clearly, Dieter just might notice the apprehension in his voice. The other man just nods, digging around in his pockets for a cigarette.

“Damn. Can you teach me sometime? I can’t organize to save my own ass,” he laughs, and he lights his smoke with a smooth flick, briefly illuminating his blue eyes in the lighter’s subtle glare. Lucas peers at them curiously, anxiously. He’s uncharacteristically quiet.

“Listen,” Dieter starts after taking a long drag, the tendrils of smoke blurring the delicate features of his face ever-so-briefly, contrasting his sudden firm tone. Lucas clenches a fist, unclenches it, feels his hand twitch, digs his short nails into his palms. His eyes never leave Dieter’s.

He looks like a feral dog backed into a cage, ready to bite at any movement.

He’s searching for any kind of tell, any hint, any giveaway of what he’s trying to gain - but he just can’t find it, and it’s driving him insane.

“I know you don’t trust me.”

Lucas feels his chest sink. If he was on edge before, now he’s got one leg dangling from the cliff below him. It’s one thing to be the only one not stupid enough to fall for the other man’s delicate act - it’s another entirely to know that he knows you don’t believe him. And with no clue what the act is about to begin with, he had no idea what Dieter might do to keep it up.

If Dieter notices his sudden bristling, as he almost certainly does, he chooses to ignore it.

“If we can’t all trust each other enough to work together, we’re all going to die out here,” he continues, his voice firm and matter-of-fact, devoid of its usual sickly sweetness. It’s not threatening, or particularly unhappy, but to Lucas it feels like the barrel of a gun against his forehead.

Which may very well be exactly what happens next if he’s not careful. He’s suddenly far too aware of the revolver in Dieter’s back pocket—a nice vintage Colt single action, but lacking the distinct U.S. military branding of any other he’s seen. If he didn’t hate Dieter’s whole existence, he would’ve loved to take a closer look at it.

A pretty gun for a prettier face, doing everything he can to convince others that he doesn’t know how to use it, yet handling it with the casual professionalism of someone that knows he's beyond capable.

Dieter lets out another puff of smoke with an exasperated sigh.

“So, I’ll make you a deal,” he announces, gesturing in Lucas’s direction. “What can I do to make you trust me?”

“What?”

Lucas is so taken aback that he physically scoots backward on his feet, squinting suspiciously. Dieter rolls his eyes and shrugs.

“You heard me,” he stares down at Lucas expectantly. “I need to know we all trust each other enough to not get each other killed. So what do I need to do to earn yours?”

Lucas’s brain fires off responses like bullets.

You could get the fuck out of my space. You could kiss my ass. You could leave me alone. You could shut your mouth for once. You could drop the fucking cool pilot shtick. You could tell me what you’re here for. You could act human. You could give me any idea at all of what the fuck you want from me. You could show some kind of vulnerability.

“Take the jacket off.”

Lucas looks almost as shocked as Dieter does when he says it, and they stare at each other like two deer caught in headlights.

“What? Christ, at least offer me dinner first.”

Dieter tilts his head to the side quizzically, squinting at Lucas, as if he’s trying to give him a chance to pretend he misspoke. Lucas knows he should take the gracious offering and play it off, he knows better.

But in typical Lucas fashion, he doubles down.

“You heard me,” he parrots. “The stupid aviator jacket. Take it off for once. It’s 110 degrees out here, man. You look like a fucking alien. Nobody wears jackets in the desert.”

Maybe if he turns it into an insult, he can get out of this with his dignity intact.

Dieter cocks an eyebrow, pursing his lips, pondering for a moment as he stamps out his cigarette butt beneath his boot—and then he shrugs nonchalantly and slips the jacket off in one smooth movement.

Lucas notices how the white tank top clings to the other man’s thin waist, leaving his arms and neck exposed. Then he notices the obvious fresh hickey under his Adam’s apple—go figure, dumb bimbo. But what he really focuses on, what he is so desperate to see, is the long, smooth scar that travels up the man’s left wrist, breaking up the smooth texture of his milky skin and snaking up his entire forearm to the crook of his elbow. And it’s not alone—both his arms are painted with marks of varying shapes, sizes, and colors, marring his otherwise pristine canvas. He can’t tell where some scars end and others begin. And bizarrely, disturbingly, he wants to count them—to assign a number to the flaws on the man’s skin, to count just how many times his godly illusion was shattered.

It’s the most human Dieter’s ever looked, and for a moment, he feels like they’re almost on equal ground. For all his inhuman perfectionism, he is flawed. Thank God, he has flaws. He bleeds. He hurts. He’s human. He’s fallible. He can be broken.

“Jesus. Lose a fight to a lawnmower or something?”

Lucas snickers, as if insulting the blonde will cover up his morbid satisfaction. And Dieter laughs—God, he laughs, and it’s so genuine in his shock at Lucas’s gall.

“I make a lot of bad choices,” the German smiles, as if he’s in on the joke.

“Ain’t a chance in hell I’m trusting you in a knife fight,” Lucas sneers, but his eyes are still locked on Dieter’s lips, on his little smile.

“That’s the smartest choice you’ve ever made, McCoy,” Dieter chuckles, cracking his knuckles. Lucas bites his cheek, idly fidgeting with his hands.

“Hey. We agree on something. That the progress your sappy ass was looking for, Sommers?” The ginger smirks, and Dieter clicks his tongue, rolling his shoulders.

“I’ll take what I can get.”

Lucas wants to look away, but he can’t bring himself to. It’s like he’s meeting a whole new person - Dieter’s finally dropped his untouchable aura. The blonde reaches for his jacket, lighting another cigarette, and the light highlights the scars along his wrists and his deceptively delicate hands, hollowing the contours of his lithe but defined musculature, the shadows pooling in his deep collar bones. He slips his jacket back on, and he’s back to perfection, as quick as Lucas can blink.

“Hey. About the invitation. You never elaborated on the whole sobriety thing, back at the hangar.”

Lucas’s shoulders immediately tense up. There it is, he’s trying to decrypt him again. But Dieter’s tone is much softer than he’s used to, and there’s a gentleness in his eyes and little smile. He seems to catch on to the other man’s discontent and hurries to clarify.

“I don’t want everybody drinking if you’re not comfortable. I don’t know how deep it runs, so it’s hard to draw a line, ja? I can tell them to shelve the beer if you’re not okay with it.”

It’s considerate - frustratingly so. He says it so calmly and unbothered, like it’s nothing to him. As if it’s not completely worldview-shattering to have somebody not just acknowledge him, but to accommodate him without any hesitation. It unnerves Lucas. It feels like a trap. Yet Dieter’s cadence is so smooth, his lilt so soft and understanding, he feels like it has to be legitimate. It makes his skin crawl and his chest hurt all at the same time, warmth rushing to his face but sending cold, nervous tremors into his hands.

He wants to trust him. He wants to throw all his worries in Dieter’s face and watch him pick them apart with his consistently calculated elegance. He wants to scream, wants to shout all his frustrations in Dieter’s face and watch how he reacts. He wants Dieter to hug him again. He wants Dieter to leave. He wants to tell him everything wrong with himself and he wants Dieter to never speak to him again.

Fuck. What the fuck is wrong with him?

“I think I’ll live,” Lucas mumbles. Really, he’s not sure. He'd personally prefer to never encounter alcohol again, but he also can’t bring himself to admit how deep the discomfort runs.

He’s never been so uncertain in his life. Dieter did give him what he wanted. And it worked. Something about seeing something so raw, scars with such an obviously personal story, made him so much less holy. For the first time, he was at least within grasp of Lucas’s level. Maybe he should return the favor—or take advantage of Dieter’s illusive moment of normalcy.

“Don’t save any for me, though. My parents were drunk assholes, I prefer to be a sober one.”

Dieter laughs at this, but he looks at Lucas with that same gentle look of pity he gave him at the hangar.

“You’re a stronger man than me, then.”

“Like that was ever in question,” Lucas jeers, though his voice lacks its usual venom. Dieter snickers at him and readjusts his collar.

“You never did elaborate on what you said either, y’know. Back at the hangar. About your history.“

It’s a downright stupid move, Lucas knows that even as he says it. But Dieter doesn’t recoil like he expects. Instead he mulls over it for a few moments, a light hum in his throat, glancing over his shoulder before he finally answers.

“I lost my parents young. Put myself in a lot of bad situations to cope. Did a lot of drugs, burned a lot of bridges, did a lot of damage to myself and anybody that intervened. I like to think I’m better than that now.”

It’s the most sincere Dieter’s ever sounded, and for the first time Lucas can remember, he feels pity for somebody else. He’d like to think it’s bullshit, but there’s such a heavy air of regret in the way the blonde’s tone shifts. Lucas nods, giving him a subtle hum of acknowledgement as he lights his own cigarette.

“I better catch up with the others. Are you coming?”

Just like that, Dieter’s dropped the subject, and he’s back to his typical chipper tone.

“Go ahead. I’ll catch up, I’ve got another bag to sort,” Lucas decides, and Dieter nods and turns to leave. It’s a perfect cop-out, a satisfying enough conclusion to their previous discussion. He watches as Dieter makes his way towards the door with his hands in his pockets.

Lucas never knows when to leave well enough alone.

“Hey. Dieter.”

Dieter stops mid-step, craning his head over his shoulder to look back at him.

“I’m sorry about your parents.”

It’s the softest voice Dieter’s ever heard Lucas use. It's warm and sincere, and he knows he means it.

“I’m sorry about yours,” Dieter replies with a hushed, soft tone. They exchange a little nod, and Dieter continues on his way out. He hesitates as he grabs the door’s handle, lingering for a moment.

“Don’t be too late. Camilo’s going to get to all the snacks before you get a chance.”

Lucas can’t help but smile a little, and he’s relieved Dieter’s not looking at him.

“I won’t be.”