Archive of Our Own

The whole thing is a total and complete misunderstanding. The first time, anyway.

Newt is just trying to help this poor Bowtruckle who wound up in Gnarlack's curled fingers, even after Newt refused to give him Pickett. Apparently just seeing one really whet his appetite, and he spent weeks sending feelers out into the American black market for magical creatures trying to acquire one.

And Newt didn't come to the Blind Pig looking for trouble--he'd come looking for a drink-- but he'd be wound down and tied up in a knot before he'd excuse that sort of treatment of a poor, harmless creature. He'd spotted it on Gnarlack's shoulder as he waltzed around the room, hands in his belt, throwing his weight around the joint, and Newt had nearly spit up his swallow of Giggle Water at the sight. It was tragic: the Bowtruckle's head leafs were all wilted and browned, his previously sharp fingers made for defending his tree habitat were broken in several places, bent completly out of shape and growing back in splintering sprouts. The little guy was clearly in pain. Newt couldn't let that stand, not at all.

He'd tried reasoning with Gnarlack, offering the frozen Ashwinder eggs again in exchange for the Bowtruckle, even hinting he had connections in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and that he could pull some strings, get MACUSA to turn a blind eye to Gnarlack's business for a month or so (which Tina would have killed him for, had she found out). But Gnarlack was having none of it. He reached a finger up to the Bowtruckle, stroking it so roughly Newt worried it's leaves would fall completely off.

"He likes me," Gnarlack insisted. "And he's mine. I own 'im."

Newt isn't typically the most violent person, and maybe it was the Giggle Water in his system or maybe he was just stressed. But at that, he punched Gnarlack, straight in the pointed nose.

And that's how he ended up with bruised knuckles, a cheekbone scraped raw, and what he thinks may be a cracked rib, right back in Graves' interrogation room.

The room is dismally familiar, and every silver edge of it reminds him of the chamber that almost took Tina's life. When Graves enters, sits in the chair opposite Newt with a slight squeak as the chair moves back and absolutely no pretense, Newt is still trying to shirk how threatened he feels just being here. Newt can tell the difference between Grindelwald and the original Graves straight away, because even though it's been a year since Grindelwald imprisoned Graves in a basement, starving him, taking his wand away and cutting off locks of his hair whenever he needed to refresh his little disguise, Graves still has a slightly haunted, exhausted look about him. It lives mostly under his eyes, but he's hiding it well with a pair of circle-rimmed glasses. If Newt didn't know how to look for the signs of unjust captivity, he'd never have seen it.

Graves is reading his arrest report clinically, so clinically Newt wonders if Graves realizes he's the same man with the creatures who caused a smidgen of havoc in the city of New York while Graves was otherwise indisposed. It's not like they know each other. Graves has no reason to take this interrogation as personally as Newt is. After all he did, sort of, save Graves' life.

"So," says Graves, sliding the paper onto the table and propping his elbows up. "You're the infamous man with the case."

Well, there's that answered.

"Tell me, why did you assault Mr. Gnarlack in the middle of the street?"

So that's the story they're going with. Newt raises his eyes toward the ceiling, thinking. Of course Gnarlack's men wouldn't have told the officials that they'd all been having a completely congenial spot of illegal substances before Newt turned the whole thing physical. The Blind Pig has been raided so many times in the last year, according to Tina, that they've got to be sick of finding places to move the entrance. Why put themselves through it when they can just whomp Newt in the street instead?

And Newt isn't the type to rat people out. After all if he reveals his knowledge of the current location of the Blind Pig it's not just Gnarlack that suffers. It's everyone trying to enjoy a nice drink.

"Well," Newt says, "It came to my attention that Mr. Gnarlack was in possession of certain, er, articles. Well, no that isn't the word." Newt frowns. Bowtruckles are, strictly speaking, illegal in the state of New York. So is owning them for that matter. And he knows MACUSA would likely rather not have the loose end. He won't jeopardize the Bowtruckly just to see Gnarlack behind bars.

"Mr. Gnarlack is in possession of certain individuals-" Newt tries again, but Graves interrupts him.

"Just to be clear: are you accusing Mr. Gnarlack of kidnapping?" Graves asks. And Newt can see how good Graves is at his job right away, how a man like him ever got the position of Director in the first place, and managed to regain it after his extended and complicated sabbatical. Graves' posture is suddenly all concern, eyebrows drawn together in sympathy, and Newt feels the overwhelming desire to tell him everything.

"I, no. Well, sort of," Newt says. "It's a bit of a complicated situation. In any case, he refused to-"

"If Mr. Gnarlack has taken someone you care about, you can file a report," Graves says. He leans back in his chair, clasping his hands together in front of him, the picture of practiced ease. He's seems to have grasped that this isn't a missing persons case, not really. "Though of course it would help us with the investigation immensely if you could relay to us the location of the Giggle Pig."

"It's, ah, the Blind Pig," Newt says.

Graves smiles, small and tight, and Newt realizes he's walked right into a trap. "Of course. My mistake," Graves says, with a small, almost shy smile.

After two hours of interrogation, Graves has wormed the current location of the Blind Pig out of him and Newt is just the tiniest bit smitten. Graves circles around the table to undo Newt's handcuffs and he has to resist sucking in a little gasp when Graves' fingers brush his pulse point.

Although that marks him down as completely shocked when Graves grabs the back of his neck, hard, making him sit up straight despite his cracked rib and personal preference. Newt hisses, and Graves tightens his grip.

"If you think of anything else," Graves says, somewhere near Newt's ear, "Please feel free to let us know."

Tina picks Newt up, flushed and aching in more ways than one, from lockup just an hour later.

"What the fuck, Scamander?" she says. She grips his arm and gets him halfway down the line of desks toward the elevator before she notices him grunting and hissing in pain at the way lifting that arm pulls on his ribs. "Sorry. But I told you never to go to the Blind Pig without me. I can't protect you if I'm not even there!"

"I know. Tina, I'm sorry, but-"

"Fuck your buts. I'm sending you back to mine. Queenie can take a look at your," she gives him the once over, seems to take in his scraped cheek and what feels like a swelling orbital socket, for the first time, "injuries. Shit, Newt. What did they do to you?"

Newt doesn't answer that. "I can get a room, Tina. I don't want to be any trouble."

"Don't be ridiculous," she says. He lets her shove him into the elevator but before the attendant can shut the door he reaches out with his uninjured side and grabs Tina's shoulder.

"Come back with me tonight. To the Bind Pig," he says.

"Why in the world would I-"

"He has a creature, and he isn't being kind to it," Newt says.

Tina sighs, all the fury and indignation leaving her body visibly, all at once. She grips the bridge of her nose with the tips of her fingers and for just a moment Newt feels a little bit bad. He knows how pressed the department is right now, how strained Tina must be. It's been awhile since she got her official status back but it hasn't been easy being one of the only people in the department that fully supports Graves' reinstatement. After all it's hard to trust someone who, for all intents and purposes, seems to have betrayed everyone right to their faces.

"I'll be there," she says. "But you should get there early. We're probably going to raid the place."

But getting there before the raid, it turns out, is nearly impossible.

He's there with Queenie the minute the Blind Pig opens. She insists on going with him and he can't stop her, wouldn't dream of it anyway even though he knows Tina will have a fit. "You need someone to make sure you don't get into any more trouble," she says, placing just one finger gently on the tip of his nose. He sees through that, just a little. Queenie been wandering around the flat, the picture of dejection in a baby pink bathrobe, ever since Jacob's obliviation. She said she'd found him, visits his bakery and talks to him, but it's not what she wants. It's clearly not enough. She needs distraction and Newt understands that. He misses Jacob too, and, on top of that, he knows what it's like to want someone you can't touch.

They've only just gotten their drinks and a table, Gnarlack has just spotted them--the fury at Newt showing his face here again so soon has only just begun to show in Gnarlack's miserable little eyes-- when Percival Graves struts into the place, a heavy team of Aurors not two steps behind him.

Graves is all pale lapels and fluttering jacket, wand out and at the ready, but held casually in the one hand, like he might drop it if he doesn't pay attention.

"Mr. Gnarlack," Graves says. "I'm afraid this is a search and seizure."

Gnarlack lets out a short curse and turns, one leg extended to make a run for it, but he's cut off by another squad of Aurors, this one headed by Tina looking ferocious in her short bob and dark suit, arms crossed with her wand in her hand.

Newt stands, with no small amount of pain, and it all goes very fast after that.

He manages to snag the Bowtruckle in the ensuing kerfuffle, amidst all of the arrests and warrant-flapping and mouthing off, and tucks it carefully into his case before anyone is the wiser. Or so he thinks.

"Mr. Scamander," Graves says, somewhere behind him. Newt spins, alarmed. "I'm surprised to see you here."

Nothing in Graves' face communicates surprise, just stern control and countenance.

All of a sudden, he breaks into a smirk, and despite himself Newt feels a deep warmth spread through his chest. "Maybe not that surprised," Graves says.

Newt is still trying to figure out what that means when Graves spins him around and presses him into the wall--the unscraped side of his face, for which he silently thanks him, though there isn't much he can do to mitigate the painful press of his ribs.Newt lets out a wounded sound, and Graves lets up just a little, the long press of his forearm across Newt's back a bit more gentle.

"We're not after the patrons. We're after the supplier," he says, even as Newt feels the cold clamp of handcuffs onto his wrists. That explains why they came so early in the night, Newt thinks: they wanted the speakeasy as empty as possible. "But we can't ignore the presence of a type like you during an investigation of this sort, Mr. Scamander."

"What type is that, Mr. Graves?" Newt says. Graves jerks him a little, back from the wall, and Newt tries not to groan again but this treatment on a cracked rib is really getting to him. Queenie hadn't known a thing about bone repair and neither had he. In the time they'd had before they had to make it to the Blind Pig, they hadn't found much in the neat set of charms books Queenie kept, other than an anti-brusing spell they'd used to mitigate the swelling. Newt had intended to head to a friend of Queenie's, who she knew to be good with "medical magical stuff" in the morning.

"You are an illegal dealer of magical beasts. And this is investigation into possession and dispensation of illegal substances. Black market trade. And, apparently, kidnapping," Graves says, and Newt doesn't have to look at his face to know he's smirking.

Graves passes him off to Tina, who gently hooks her fingers into the loose fabric of his jacket, nodding at Graves.

"Don't worry," she whispers. "We'll have you and Queenie out by morning."

Newt winces, adjusting his posture to take the pressure off his ribs, and tries not to think about how far away that feels.

-

Tina is true to her word and has Queenie and Newt out early the next morning. She helps him get is case out of Evidence--no small task, given it is a heavily charmed object in a city where all magic is suspect--and Newt spends the next week completely holed up in Queenie and Tina's flat, practically forcibly charmed to lay still and not aggravate his ribs. Even though Queenie's friend had really been quite good, stern faced and silent as a sphinx though she was, she had suggested Newt not press himself for at least a week. So it takes him the better part of the week his laying in to realize he's being followed.

He's out getting something for Queenie--she may be a magical cook but she's nothing without nutmeg, or so she tells him--when he spots them. It's three men, all in dark coats with their collars up. Newt's only sure they're following him because it's the third time he's seen them, and they're always staring every time he catches them out of the corner of his eye.

He doesn't have his case on him, so he doubts they're after any of his creatures. They've got to be Gnarlack's guys, which leads Newt to the realization that Gnarlack and his associates probably blame him for the MACUSA raid, and that's fair enough if he's being honest. He starts loping his way down Fifth Avenue but he can hear them catching up, the tapping of their polished loafers on the side walk matching the panicked tattoo of his pulse.

"Applesauce," Newt says, reaching a corner. He looks down the street, trying to think of a way out of his predicament. Then he takes in the sign above him.

And like an idiot, Newt has the perfect idea.

-

The black market for magical creatures in New York had effectively been shut down by MACUSA before Newt had ever arrived, not to mention the possession of magical creatures being made completely illegal. Only the most well-hidden, or entirely impossible and ridiculous corners survived-- corners too ridiculous to be suspected by the authorities. One such corner, was the market underneath Grand Central.

It's ostentatious, and entirely difficult to keep secret, and perfect for Newt's purposes. He books it though the station, entering through the side and wishing there was any place in the entire city that was abandoned enough he could just apparate his way out of this one. But a glance thrown over his shoulder tells him he's still being pursued, the three mens' black coats flapping, hands thrown over their hats to keep them from flying off.

Newt ducks around a corner and practically slides down the marble incline to the famous whisper gallery. There're two children there, heads tucked into the walls with their hands cupped around their mouths, giving their little secrets to each other and the marble arches above them. Newt supposes they're so focused on their task, so mystified by the mundane magic of the arches, they either won't see him or won't mind.

Newt lunges for the opposite corner and mutters the password into the stone. "Chocolate crickets," he says, and feels the whooshing sensation of being transported downward through the earth.

When next he opens his eyes it's not to much light. The smell of earth and creatures fills his nose and he remembers he hates this place. Some of these creatures need sunlight to survive. It's cruel to keep them underground, even for the day.

Even musty and a bit dirty, as subterranean places cannot help but be, the market under Grand Central maintains the gilded beauty of the statin above. The whole thing is in what clearly should be a store room for extra train cars, with tracks leading to permanently locked doors on the far side of the room. There's even a few train cars, appropriated for shop space by enterprising dealers. The whole thing is roofed by arches, the same marble as the whisper gallery. The ceiling is a strange mimicry of the mural in the main terminal: it has the same constellations, but these are alive and chasing each other. Sagittarius shoots arrows toward the Leo constellation, and Capricorn alternately swims and trots its way around the edges of the painting.

The dealers treat space like a hot commodity, delineating it with wooden stakes and charmed, controlled flames. The room isn't massive, though it is quite large. However, the black market for magical creatures iss strained enough at this point that it looks like almost every dealer in the city has decided to squeeze themselves into this one space. The result is an overwhelming labyrinth of screaming creatures and yelling dealers, tables lined with overcrowded cages and larger enclosures holding meek and worn-down looking creatures of more substantial size. Things have clearly gotten much worse since the MACUSA crackdowns. It used to be that most people on the market had cared for their creatures, nurtured and loved them, as any good breeder must. It wasn't a trade you picked because you were overly fond of money, not usually. The work was often hard and misunderstood, completely unrewarding, especially in America. But now, since the trade was so rare in the city, those that still participated were often hardened to a life built on illegal means, and it didn't often make them kind.

Newt hurtles himself into the aisles, trying to find a good cage or stall or train car to hide behind. He knows Gnarlack's men might know the password and be able to get in here--where else would Gnarlack have obtained a Bowtruckle in New York--but he's hoping against hope that in the shadows and the dirt he can get lost enough they won't find him. He's also hoping that the dealers will want to remain obscure enough that any ensuing kerfuffle will be shut down by a small crowd of enterprising criminals.

Newt hides out behind a very deflated looking Nundu and his heart aches. The poor thing is muzzled, quite solidly, to prevent its toxic breath from escaping. The muzzle is clearly hurting its ability to breathe at all, much less puff up the way it's meant to.

Newt peeks out from behind the cage and sees the three men on the entry platform. They're splitting up, each taking a different aisle, and Newt curses. The place isn't that big in the first place. He's not going to be able to hide forever.

That's when Newt spots him. He's less put together than usual, he's grown out some scruff and his hair isn't slicked back. It's come loose and curly. He's dropped the glasses and the suit entirely, embracing a slightly haggard appearance, but it's definitely Graves.

In... disguise? Newt snorts. The head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Undercover. Newt couldn't ever have imagined it except the man is right there in front of him, dressed in a dowdy brown suit, so worn down Newt is surprised anyone of Graves' stature would dare be seen in it, even undercover.

Graves is scanning, Newt can see that even from this distance, and suddenly he remembers who had been at the helm, the main individual closing the black market for magical creatures in New York. It had been Graves' pet project, so to speak, which Newt knows because his contact in the city had spoken to him about it, about Graves specifically, and how he seemed to have some kind of deep-rooted issue with trade, like he took it personally.

American magical law is iron clad. Nothing is done openly, no possibly risk of becoming obvious can be permitted.

Which gives Newt an idea.

"Alohomora," he mutters, pressing his wand into the lock on the Nundu's cage. The creature stares up at him, eyes wary, and Newt tries to look as unthreatening as possible, holding his hands up where the Nundu can see them. He reaches slowly toward the creature's muzzle but he only gets one buckle unhooked before the thing lunges past him, a slightly muffled roar escaping from the little sliver Newt has managed to loosen.

"I'll find you later I suppose," he says, watching it bound off down the aisle. Then he gives it's cage a good kick, toppling it, and lets out a solid, nonsensical yell for good measure.

He can feel every eye on him at that point but, undeterred, he reaches for a cage of Pixies across the way from him. And then things really start up.

He releases anything he can get a hand on, Clabberts and Diricrawls, but he's careful not to let anything out that's at any risk of eating anything else, especially not a person. There's a very shy Niffler Newt manages to find, who reaches hesitantly for his pocket watch before he bats it away gently, releasing it toward the next shiny object it can find, which happens to be a collection of Occamy eggs for sale.

The market is in chaos, panic at the loose Nundu--who, Newt has noticed, is declawed and quite unable to breathe, but apparently menacing nonetheless--and the Pixies are stealing and tugging and galavanting through the patrons. Spells flash through the market place, but hardly any magical beast Newt released is so easily hit. He watches a Pixie steal a hat off one of the men who'd been tailing him and toss it onto a Diricrawl, who promptly disappears. The man dives after it, letting out a cry of anguish Newt very nearly feels bad for.

"Immobulous!" someone shouts, quite near Newt, and he feels the tug of the spell on his body. But it doesn't hold, too weak. Newt pushes over a wooden table, watching it crash to the floor and splinter. But now everyone's shouting the same spell, alternately at the creatures and him, and it's starting to take.

"Immobulous," and that one is Graves, Newt knows it, recognizes the tenor of his voice, and absolutely everything goes still.

"Grab that thing, will you," Graves says to someone. Newt can't see them, behind him somewhere as they are. He assumes they mean the Nundu, who he can hear growling angrily. "And collect the Pixies and the other... the other ones," Graves says.

Newt feels a burst of magic behind him and Graves is there in the corner of his eye, threadbare clothes gone, replaced by his usual smartly styled suit. He notes the glasses don't return, though Graves' hair is back to its usual style. Graves is running a hand through it while he looks at Newt, considering.

Someone, clearly an Auror, just over Graves' shoulder, is yelling in a heavy New York accent: "This is an official MACUSA raid! We wanna see IDs, merchant licenses, wands, all of it! Unless you wanna spend a warm night at headquarters!"

There's groans, a lot of shuffling, and Newt watches a few people strain against the charm.

"Mr. Scamander," Graves says, wandering into his eyeline, so close all Newt can see is his big, bushy eyebrows.

"Mr. Graves," Newt replies, when Graves doesn't continue.

Graves shakes his head, crosses his arms. "You're quite-how do I say this. You're quickly becoming a difficult man."

Newt lets out a short laugh and tries to shift a bit, testing the limits of the charm, and finds to his surprise it's completely gone.

"How are your ribs, Mr. Scamander? Feeling better?" Graves asks, Newt can hear the careful tap of his shoes on the ground as he makes his way around behind him.

Newt feels for his rib, wincing. "Still a bit tender. Thank you for-" But he can't get the rest of the sentence out because Graves has him pressed into the ground, knee digging into his back.

"I'm glad to hear that," Graves says, yanking at Newt's hands to pull them together so he can cuff him. "Mr. Scamander, you're under arrest for disturbing the peace, illegal trade in magical creatures, and risking the revelation of wizarding kind."

Newt's breath is completely gone, any response he may have had squeezed out of his chest, but out of the corner of his eye he can see two of his tails, watching him carefully, eyeing Graves. Newt smiles. to himself and presses his cheek into the ground, letting Graves do what he will.

-

"Newt is perfectly adequate, Mr. Graves. I think we've seen enough of each other by now to drop the formalities."

Graves doesn't look impressed. This time he's got a manilla file, instead of a single piece of paper. It isn't too thick but Newt can clearly see the stamp on the front: PERSON OF INTEREST.

"Mr. Scamander I have been over this with several witnesses and members of my own force, and everyone present claims that you simply appeared in the market having no apparent business there and began to cause trouble, entirely unprompted. By all accounts, they cannot work out what you were doing there or why you released several dangerous creatures into the marketplace, causing such a ruckus that several people in the station itself had to be obliviated thereafter. Personally, I can think of only one reason.

"Are you being followed, Mr. Scamander?" Graves asks.

Newt starts a bit and stares at Graves.

Graves plops the folder down on the table and knits his fingers together. "It makes sense. From what Mr. Gnarlack tells me you've been quite the pain in his side, and you've taken something very valuable from him. Mr. Gnarlack has powerful contacts in the city, and we suspect, in the mafia. It wouldn't be too much of a stretch to imagine he might put out a-"

"Mr. Graves, what will happen to the creatures in the market? Because," Newt continues, interrupting a very annoyed-looking Graves. "I am very capable of providing good, temporary homes for them all in my-"

"Even the, what was it, the Nundu?" Mr. Graves says, glancing down at the open file in front of him.

"Yes, even the Nundu. I already-er- well I have experience, with them," Newt says, his eyes shifting away from Graves.

Graves considers that, rolling his shoulders in a way Newt finds very distracting.

"It's not exactly sanctioned," Graves says slowly. "But the only thing we've thus far been able to handle with any degree of efficiency has been the Pixies."

"Yes," Newt says, ducking his head. "Well you dealt with them all quite well in the market. I had no idea you were so powerful, Mr. Graves."

Graves seems saddened by that, and Newt regrets it immediately.

"I am sometimes," he says quietly, like he's talking to himself but he doesn't really mean it. Then he clears his throat. "I can't release you until you're clearly no longer a threat to exposing us to the No-Majs."

"Yes, I know. I'm not. Talk to Ms. Goldstein, she can-"

"And with a history like yours," Graves says, placing his fingers on the file in front of him, splayed out. Newt is distracted into silence by his hands. They're large. Bigger than his own, he thinks. Even though he can't prove it, he hopes so. "I'm not sure how easy that's going to be."

"Fine," Newt shakes his head. "I understand."

"Do you?" says Graves, taking on a musing tone. He leans back in his chair, hands clasped over his stomach.

-

"Why is the Director telling me I have to keep eyes on you twenty-four/seven, Newt? What did you do?"

Tina is blistering in her anger, all pointed shoulder pads and indignation.

"I'm sorry, Tina. Is it not in the briefing? I should have thought-"

"Of course it's in the briefing, you asshole. I'm asking you why. The real reason," Tina says. She reaches behind her to the pile of papers on her desk and yanks a file off the top. "I swear, Scamander, you're gonna to kill me young."

"I sincerely hope not," Newt says. "Can you uncuff me, Tina? It's really-"

"No," she says. Her eyes flick across the file, and she says quietly, "Graves says you're being tailed by the mob."

Newt sinks into his chair. "Yes, it would appear so."

"Oh, Newt," she says, slapping the file closed. "Is Queenie in danger? Should I be worried?"

"I don't think so. Maybe," Newt says. "She never touched Gnarlack but she was with me, both times he was assaulted though he may not remember the first, oblivation notwithstanding. You know, the time with Jacob. But I went to the market in the first place because I didn't want to lead them to her," he says, trying to get Tina to look into his eyes.

"Shit," Tina says delicately. "Guess that's me on home leave then."

-

It's fun, for a few days. Like a giant sleepover. Queenie paints his nails and cooks, and Tina reads in the window, which he stays away from. They play cards and Newt questions Queenie about her new job, a shop girl at one of the big department stores. None of them forget about the fact that they're in a women's only household, so Newt stays quiet. But Queenie jokes about slapping some lipstick on him and giving him a skirt just so he can move freely at least within the building, which, as more time passes, sounds like a better and better idea. He just wants to step outside, just for a minute, just get a smidgen of air. Not that the air in New York City is top quality per se, but after awhile anything will do.

"Newt so help me if you don't back away from the door," Tina is saying. She's got her coat on and her wand out--really out--and pointing at him. "I have to go meet Graves and you're going to make me late."

"Just let me come with you," he says, begs really. "Just for a bit."

"Newt, no," she says. "You're safe in here. We've charmed it to hell and back and the people following you know that. They're just waiting for you or Queenie to step outside. They've gotta be."

"What's that about me?" Queenie says, poking her head in from the dining area.

"Don't go outside," Tina says sternly.

"Pft, noted," Queenie says, disappearing. "Can I borrow one of your novels?"

"Of course," Tina calls. Newt edges for the door and she whips her wand back up. "You are seriously pushing it."

"Please Tina I'm so-"

"Dead! Maybe," Tina sighs, drops her wand and puts a hand on her hip, exasperated. "Look, I'm pretty sure when I go see him Graves is just going to tell me this is all over and you can go back to wandering New York doing whatever you like but right now, please, just, just-"

"Stay," Newt says, sheepish. "I know."

He plops down on the couch, be-socked foot outstretched on the cushions. His leg reaches all the way to the end.

Tina lets out a deep breath. "Alright," she says. "I'm off. If I'm not back in an hour, send an owl to the Department headquarters. They'll send someone after me."

Newt waves his hand in acknowledgement, settling back into the couch to properly pout.

He's ten minutes into it, giving his usual ability to feel sorry for himself quite a run for its money, when Queenie reappears.

"Hey, Newt? I'm going to step into the bath. You gonna be alright?" she says, tapping her fingernails rhythmically in the doorway.

Newt nods, still resigned to his pout. But when he hears the bathroom door close he bounds of the couch.

Just a minute. Just a second. Just around the block and back. Tina and Queenie don't need to know.

He shuffles his jacket on quickly and slips into his shoes. Then with a hop and skip--and a very quiet tiptoe past the land lady's door-- he's out, in the free air. He takes a deep breath in and coughs.

"Not great but it'll do," he says. He stands by the door for a moment, checking every part of the sidewalk he can think to check. No one. No goons in black hats. No one looking conspicuously his way. Nothing.

That makes him a little bit sad, actually. All these days cooped up inside, being a grumpy burden on Tina and keeping Queenie away from the light of day for nothing? He's not even going to be attacked?

He makes his way down the stairs and with a few steps he's rounding the corner, strides long, hands in his pockets. He's just thinking how ridiculous it all feels when it hits him.

An elbow--must be, it's so hard when it connects with his face-- out of nowhere, cracking him right across the bridge of his nose. He's so stunned he stumbles backward, and then he's being pushed, and through his watering eyes he can see the light grow dim around him. Someone's pushed him into an alleyway.

He's just got his fists up--not much of a fighter really, but he'll give it a go--when some delivers a kick to his stomach. He goes down, hitting his knees, and another foot finds its way into his ribs. He lets out a high, pained noise. Like a rabbit, he thinks.

Fingers in his hair pull him up, and someone spits the words, "Mr. Gnarlack is very displeased with you, Mr. Scamander," and of course that's followed by a punch. Newt's resigning himself to this, being beaten in the street, because what else can he do? But after that punch it all stops.

"Newt, honestly." Newt can feel his nose is bleeding, blood dripping into his mouth, and his ears are ringing a little but the voice is unmistakably Graves'. Relief settles into Newt's body and he uncurls, lets his defensive position go.

Newt's being hauled to his feet, gently, but firmly. "I'm going to have to take you into my custody, sir," Graves says, loudly this time, and something in his voice tells Newt he's putting on a show.

Newt feels his upper body being moved and suddenly he's pressed against the hood of an automobile while Graves does something to his hands--must do, but Newt's too dazed to get any real idea. Graves is pressing him into the car and his body is all warm pressure and muscle, shifting against Newt's bony edges. He swallows a groan, not sure if it's only from pain.

He can feel Graves' hand against the back of his neck, thumb rubbing up under his ear. Then he's being pulled up by the neck and his head is being pressed down to avoid smashing against a car hood. He feels the high squeal of an engine in front of him and the vague sense of Graves next to him and he lets the details around him fade and become fuzzy. All he feels for a few minutes is the throbbing in his face, focusing into one single point of pain.

The car stops a bit abruptly and since Newt's hands are cuffed behind him so he can't catch himself. He goes reeling forward into the glass and Graves' arm shoots out, bracing him across the chest. The hit reverberates through his rib cage and tears spring to his eyes.

"Shit, sorry," Graves says. "Not really used to these things."

Graves keeps one hand on the steering wheel and reaches the other into his coat, drawing out his wand in a long flourish. He murmurs what must be an unlocking charm specific to the department because Newt doesn't recognize it. The cuffs drop from his hands, and even though it hurt his shoulders more to have his arms pulled behind his back, he rubs his wrists, just something to do to avoid looking at Graves. Or, worse, thanking him. He doesn't even know what he'd thank him for--arresting him, man-handling him, potentially saving him from further injury--and the need to say something tugs at him.

"I didn't even know the Department had cars," Newt says eventually. He sounds like he has a cold, and talking just makes the blood drip faster into the already setting stain on the front of his shirt.

"Of course we have cars. We need to look like official No-Maj police from time to time. Not often, thank goodness."

Newt lets his head loll to the side so he can see Graves. He's dressed just like he usually is: all business. Black and white. Pure contrast.

"You've got to check on Queenie," Newt says. "They could be-"

"They don't care about Queenie. Just you," Graves says. "And they think they know where you're going to be now, so they're off the chase for the moment."

"Am I not, going to be where, I'm going to be?" Newt says, but his head is pounding. He's having trouble following.

"No, you're not," Graves says. "They think I'm taking you to headquarters and," Graves checks his mirrors, sends a glance over his shoulders. "There's nobody on us right now so I don't think they'll be any the wiser."

"You're being terribly helpful," Newt says, suspicious.

Graves laughs and Newt tries to memorize the sound. It's deep, like the earth cracking.

"You're a valuable MACUSA asset, Mr. Scamander. I'm protecting our interests."

"That's strange," says Newt. He lets his head roll, so he's facing away from Graves. "I thought I was an illegal magical beast merchant."

"You were, until I convinced Madam President that you offer good homes to the more active objects in lockup."

"Hmf," Newt says, trying not to feel pleased, and dazedly confused. "How did you know-?" "I've charmed Tina's apartment to alert me when you leave," Graves says. "Does Tina know?" Newt asks. She couldn't like that very much.

"I was meeting up with her to inform her of you position change," Graves says, smoothly avoiding the touchy subject of casting spells on Tina's stoop without her permission. "I'll send an owl to her desk. She must be there by now," Graves says, and the car stops abruptly.

"We're here," Graves says. "Do you need-?"

"I've got it," Newt says, levering the door open. He grips it, steadying himself and he's about to give walking a go but Graves is there. He props Newt's arm across his shoulders and they're so broad and he's so much taller than Newt he can't stand up straight with Newt on him like that. Newt is cursing to himself about it, trying not to be too obvious that he's using his arm more to cop a feel than for support. The line of Graves' shoulders feels hard, muscles tense. Newt grips at his own rib like it's going to help anything and Graves asks if he's still "got it."

Newt squeezes his eyes shut. "I'm fine. Fine. Let's go wherever we're going."

"It's just here," Graves says, gesturing toward a townhouse across the street. "Sorry, couldn't park closer."

Graves mostly sort of carries him, though Newt tries to get a step in every now and then. He gets Newt up the stairs more or less by just lifting him, and Newt is overwhelmed by all this strength and also by the increasingly fuzzy feeling in his head.

Graves unlocks the door and ushers Newt onto a couch. The interior of the house is dark and Newt can't make out any details. Graves disappears, and Newt hears fabric shuffling, footsteps, and then water running. When Graves reappears, he's shot his cuff links and his shirt sleeves are rolled up. He's got a bowl of water in his hands and a cloth and really miraculous forearms.

"Ugh," Newt says.

"Let me see it," Graves replies. He reaches gingerly for Newt's nose and Newt recoils.

"Oh don't touch it, it's going to hurt, just leave it," Newt says, his voice a stuffy whine that grates even on his own ears.

Graves sits back on his knees, eyebrows lifting sympathetically, the same look he'd given Newt in the interrogation room countless times, that made him trust Graves. And once again Newt sees all the difference between Graves and Grindelwald. Grindelwald had seemed so practiced, every moment full of intentional ease. But with Graves, this real, living Graves, it's like peace lives inside him, like has a well of calm and compassion he draws from endlessly and easily.

"I promise it's not going to hurt, Newt. I've seen many a broken nose in my day. I promise to be careful," Graves says, looking at him so earnestly Newt has to look away.

"If it's broken you're going to have to set it," Newt says, warily, uncurling from his defensive recoil, letting his body drift closer to Graves'.

"I'm just looking now," Graves says. His fingers press lightly into the hot skin around Newt's cheekbones, reaching inward, searching. He's gentle, touching Newt so delicately he can barely stand it, and he definitely can't breathe.

"Would you believe I think it's only sprained?" Graves says. He reaches for the bowl of water on the floor and wets the cloth he brought.

"Gracious I'll completely ruin that thing," Newt says, as Graves lifts the damp cloth to his upper lip.

"It's old," Graves says. He dabs lightly at the blood around Newt's nose, but not matter how soft he touches him Newt still feels hot shoots of pain through his swollen, bleeding wreck of a face.

Then, very suddenly, Graves grabs the bridge of his nose and yanks.

Newt's vision goes white, and he probably screams but he's not sure, he can't notice or hear it through the searing pain. As it fades, he realizes Graves is still rubbing his cheeks gently with his thumbs, muttering quiet, comforting words to him. Newt reaches for his own face, batting away Graves' hands. As the pain fades, he realizes it doesn't feel as sore as it should, and none of the skin is open and bleeding.

"Did you... did you heal my nose without a wand?" Newt asks.

"It's alright," Graves is saying. "Just a little."

"Applesauce," Newt says miserably.

"Is that the most powerful word you can think of?" Graves asks, smirking.

"No," says Newt, and he sounds like a petulant child but his nose hurts and his ribs hurt from yelling and being kicked and he doesn't care. "It's just the only one I can think of that's suited for present company."

"That's kind of you. I'm not sure everyone would agree," Graves says. He drops the cloth, stained with Newt's blood, back into the bowl and stands. "Take off your shirt."

"No, I," Newt stutters. He reaches up to grip the lapels of his coat tight around his throat. "That's alright."

"I want to have a look at that rib," Graves says. He grabs the bowl off the floor and disappears. Newt realizes he must be heading into the kitchen, and that the house is much lighter than it was. Graves must have turned on the gas.

"I can check it just fine myself, see?" Newt says. He shrugs off his coat and waits for Graves to re-enter the room before he demonstrates, running his fingers along his rib. It doesn't feel cracked again, but Newt isn't going to press it himself. He's had quite enough pain for the evening, thank you.

"Newt," Graves says, all authority. He draws himself up straight, lengthening his shoulders, and Newt feels just a little, just a tiny bit, dizzy. Again. "If it's re-cracked I'm going to have to call a proper healer. Take off your shirt."

He wants to ask if they have "proper healers" in America, because he hasn't seen anyone yet that's even as official as what they had in the Hogwarts infirmary, and that was just a school. Medicinal magic doesn't seem to be the most popular trade in America. At the very least, it isn't formalized.

But what he says instead is, "You take off yours." The words are out of his mouth before he can think about it. He nearly slaps his hand over his mouth before the realizes how badly that would make his nose ache.

Graves raises an eyebrow, just the one. "I can, if it'll make you feel better."

Newt swallows.

But Graves is already shrugging. "Why not," he murmurs. He's already halfway done with his vest buttons before Newt wakes up enough from his reverie to protest.

"No, I, that's really quite alright," Newt says as Graves brushes open his vest and begins to loosen his tie. When this doesn't appear to slow Graves down, Newt reaches for his own buttons. "See? It's fine. I'm doing it. It's fine."

Graves doesn't say a word, just keeps working, button by button, until Newt can see one whole, uninterrupted line of his chest. Newt's fingers freeze and he isn't sure where to look. Graves reaches for his collar and begins sliding his shirt down his arms.

"Oh," Newt says, and looks down, trying to focus on undoing his own buttons, not even thinking about why he's doing it anymore. Anything to avoid looking at Graves. He does it with such focus he finishes in record time, and he's sitting there on the couch bare chested with no idea what to do next.

"Lean back," Graves says. He crouches down onto his knees again in front of Newt, and Newt tries to keep his own eyes focused on Graves hair, smoothly cut back against his head, streaked with more grey than Newt had noticed before. "Or, actually, lay down, across the couch. Perfect."

Newt feels, suddenly, like an odd medical experiment as Graves reaches across his chest. His fingers press lightly at first, just as lightly as they had on his face.

"Aren't going to punch me in the chest, are you?" Newt says, straining out a laugh. "Just about the equivalent of what you did to my nose."

"I fixed your nose," Graves says, digging into his ribs a little. Newt sucks in a breath. "I had to set it before I could heal it, and I'm still going to wait a bit to let it settle naturally before I fully heal it. I'm not so good with bones. Don't know the anatomy well enough. I couldn't fix your rib if it had been re-cracked. But I can help with bruising."

Graves presses his hand across Newt's ribs, his hand stretching from just under Newt's chest down to the edge of his trousers where Graves' pinkie just brushes his belt. And it's warm, so warm Newt shivers and realizes, suddenly, that it's cold in this room.

"Still might be a bit yellowed," Graves says, rubbing his thumb gently against Newt's sternum.

"That's alright," Newt says. "Medicine doesn't seem to be a popular specialty among American wizards."

Graves gives him a quizical look and removes his hand. Newt worries for a second he's offended him.

"My grandmother taught me," he says. "I suppose it isn't very refined."

Newt sits up, hand gravitating toward his ribs almost out of habit by now, almost to keep feeling the warmth of Graves' hand, feeling incredibly guilty. "I didn't mean any offense."

Graves waves him off and stands. He reaches for his vest on the floor and removes his wand.

"The house is charmed," he says, walking to the window. "Even against you."

"I suppose I deserve that," Newt mutters. He digs the fingers of his free hand into the couch cushion. It's soft, well-made. Probably expensive and old. "Is this your house?"

Graves shrugs. "It's a family house."

"Ah," Newt says.

Graves is still shirtless, and since he's got his back to him Newt stares. He looks soft, but Newt is sure that if he touched him he'd be firm, muscular. Knows it in fact, he realizes, and the feeling of being pressed into the police car by Graves comes back to him all at once.

"Mr. Graves I have a bit of a personal question," Newt says.

Graves turns. The light from the street lamp outside cuts lines of yellow light across his face and chest but Newt tries to keep his eyes on Graves' face.

"Why were you so set on removing magical beasts from New York?"

Graves stares at him, his jaw shifting. Newt gets the sense he's deciding something, something important to him.

"Do you dislike magical creatures?" Newt ventures.

"No," Graves says, almost looking guilty. "I thought the trade was... inhumane. And dangerous for us, for this great secret we keep. I was concerned witches and wizards in the city were-" Graves stops short, catching himself. "I was concerned about what people would do to these creatures in order to stay hidden, to avoid the full prosecution of MACUSA law. And at the time, the New Salemers were becoming a real threat and," Graves sighs, his breath shaky. "I thought it was the right thing to do."

"I like that answer," Newt says. At the look on Graves' face, he elaborates, "It's not nearly so bad as what I thought."

That smirk returns to Graves' face and Newt's a little bit relieved. For awhile, Graves had taken on the look of a puppy he'd just kicked.

"What did you think?" Graves asks. He's inching toward Newt and Newt's whole body seizes up. At a slightly chilly breeze, he remembers he's shirtless.

"Oh, well, I-" Graves is sinking to the floor in front of Newt again, and he reaches for Newt's knees, slides his fingers up Newt's thighs, just a bit, not an inch too far, nothing he couldn't take back or shake off as a casual movement. "I thought...thought perhaps you weren't too inclined toward... magical... beasts..."

Newt knows he's talking but he just sort of loses interest in what he's saying. Because Graves is still moving toward him, forward and forward until he's breathing Newt's air.

"Is this alright?" Graves says, and Newt isn't sure what he means. It's perfect.

Actually, it could be a little better. So Newt improves it himself.

Newt presses his lips into Graves'. He tries to extend them past his nose so the sensitive tissue doesn't get aggravated but he's stuck between fearing that pain and not caring because Graves is kissing him and his hands are stroking up and down Newt's thighs and Newt feels dizzy in a better way than he has all day.

But he can't keep it up. Eventually he starts groaning, the pain in his nose too much to bear.

"You're too injured to kiss," Graves says, laughing a little into Newt's mouth.

"No I'm not," Newt says, but even his voice gives him away. His nose is stuffy with blood and still swelling, despite Graves' spot of magic. "I think I need to lay down."

"I may have some ice left," Graves says. He lowers Newt down, leading him with a hand on the back of his neck. Graves presses a kiss high on his cheekbone, careful of his nose.

"I'll be right back," Graves says, and Newt feels colder even before Graves disappears from his sight.

-

He spends the night on Graves' couch, after sending an owl to Queenie, asking if she doesn't mind checking on his creatures for the time being, and alerting her that Graves is quite sure she's not being threatened, but she should still be cautious, just in case. The couch is strangely, blissfuly comfortable, overstuffed and luxurious, and he wakes to sunlight through the front window and a hand on his shoulder.

It's Graves, leaning over the back of the couch and staring at Newt with eyes so soft he feels like he must be dreaming.

"You were snoring so badly I was worried my house would collapse," Graves says. "I think I can heal your nose fully now."

"That would be nice," Newt says, reaching tenderly for his own face. As he sits up, his rib aches a little but the discomfort is minimal compared to his nose.

Graves takes his face between his hands, his thumbs rubbing gently over Newt's cheeks and Newt can't keep his eyes on Graves', not very long. It's like exposing himself to a live wire, it's such an overwhelming feeling to look Graves directly in the eyes.

He didn't feel it before but he does this time, the sensation of his skin knitting back together, the blood moving slowly out of the capillaries. Newt closes his eyes when they sting with the sensation. Even when the stinging stops Graves keeps holding his face.

"Will you stay here today?" he asks Newt. He whispers it but it feels so loud in the empty house.

"Alright," Newt says. He reaches for Graves' wrist, already close to him where he's touching Newt's cheek, and pulls it to his mouth, kissing his pulse point. "I will if you kiss me again."

He doesn't have to open his eyes to see Graves smile at that because he feels it when Graves presses his lips to Newt's.

-

Graves kisses him until his lips feel chapped and the bliss in Newts body seems fit to start leaking out his ears. He's completely ruined Graves' hair, carefully slicked back before Newt got his fingers in it, and to Newt's delight it's sticking up in all directions when Graves pulls away from him, laughing a little.

"I have to go to work," he says, and Newt gets his fingers in Graves' lapels and whimpers at that.

Graves tells him he's welcome to anything in the kitchen if he gets hungry, that he'll probably be back by lunch, and with a kiss to his forehead he's gone. Newt feels oddly domestic, watching him go from the window.

The second Graves pulls away Newt starts to explore. He realizes it wasn't just his fuzzy head and the darkness last night: the whole house is furnished in black and lightwood accents, even the walls seem to eat the light. It's a bit intimidating, actually, and Newt finds himself hesitant to venture beyond the ground floor.

He's just coming back from the kitchen, crackers in hand, the heavy blanket Graves had given him for the night wrapped around his shoulders, when he hears it. There's some kind of scratching sound, coming from the entry door. Newt approaches, trying to keep his footsteps quiet but the house is old and the floor boards creak gently under his feet.

When he gets near the door, the scratching stops abruptly, but now he hears voices.

"The Director is gone. There shouldn't be anyone home," someone says, voice heavy with an accent.

"Well Scamander wasn't at the station. Do you think-?"

There's a silence, and then the scratching starts up again, more aggressive.

Newt knows that sound. They're pressing the defensive charms on the house.

"Ah," Newt says, letting the blanket fall from his shoulders. "Applesauce."

He grabs his jacket and dashes back into the living room where his shirt is a wrinkled puddle on the floor. Graves had said the house was charmed against him, which he assumes means he can't leave, and clearly the front door is no option anyway. Newt's got quite a thorough knowledge of charms, though, having used any number of them on his case, and he knows most people don't over-charm where they don't have to. Which means the second floor of the house might just be easier to break through.

Newt takes the stairs two at at time, even as he hears the charms on the door groaning behind him.

"We know you're in there, Scamander!" they call after him. "Gnarlack just wants to talk."

Newt's rib offers him a twinge in protest at his pace, and Newt thinks to himself that talking, after having him hunted by goons for the better part of a month, isn't bloody likely. He picks the first door at the top of the stairs, hoping it leads to a window facing the back of the house. He's hoping for a fire escape or garbage pile, something to soften his landing or make it easier to get down so he doesn't have to risk apparating, but when he reaches the window there's nothing but an empty alleyway and a cobblestone gutter. Newt rifles through his coat for his wand and with a turn he's spinning down the alleyway.

He hits the end of the alley and stops, nearly stumbling head first into one of the men he recognizes from Grand Central.

"Gracious excuse me," Newt says. He lets himself fall right into the man and, running on nothing but instinct, stretches his fingers into the man's pocket.

"Hey, what-" the man says, shoving at Newt, who's already slipping away.

"So sorry," Newt is saying, as he takes off down the street.

"Hold it!" the guy calls, but Newt is already running. He hears the guy behind him, though, and Newt isn't the fastest runner, especially not with a still healing rib, so he's just beginning to wonder how long he can really expect to keep this up when he realizes where he is.

It makes sense Graves wouldn't live that far from MACUSA headquarters but Newt never excepted him to live more or less around the corner. Up ahead he can see the park where the courthouse sits, and across from that, the Woolworth Building stretches toward the clear sky.

Newt feels a tug on the edge of his coat and speeds up, as much as he can. It's close, but he makes it to the doorman first.

"I have stolen this," Newt says, showing the pocket watch he'd plucked from the goon's pocket when he'd bumped him. "Indeed I have, and I would very much like to be arrested."

The doorman raises his eyebrows and squints at him. "I beg your pardon?"

"There's no need for that," Newt says. He sends a glance over his shoulder, where he can see the man who'd been chasing him has slowed to a walk, staring warily from a distance. "In fact I quite need you to call Mr. Graves up here, posthaste, to arrest me."

The doorman remains unmoved. "I don't think you have clearance to enter this way, sir."

"Right. Yes. Mr. Graves? Director the Department for Ma-"

Before he knows it he's on the ground and a knee is pressing into his spine.

"I'd stay quiet if I were you, sir."

It's clearly not Graves pressing his face into the ground this time. Judging by their voice it's a woman, has to be some passing Auror or other such official on their way into the building, and Newt doesn't want to think about why he expects it to be Graves every time he hits the pavement. But then a pair of shoes appear in front of his face and he knows those loafers without a doubt.

"This is quite the scene," Graves says. "I can take it from here. Thank you, Ms. Goode."

"Course, sir," the owner of the knee in his back says, but not before jerking him to his feet by his arms.

Graves grips his arm and pulls Newt into the building. He's just beginning to relax when Graves backs him into the wall next to the door and, more or less, slams him into the brick.

"What's wrong? How did you get out of the house?" Graves says, and Newt is so thoroughly distracted by Graves' thumb, sliding under his ear, that he takes a minute to respond.

Graves gives him a little jolt. "Ah, I took a window on the second floor. Someone's following me. They were trying to break the charms."

Graves swears. "They followed you here?"

Newt nods, but against the wall it's no real movement. "Yes. Or, well, at least the one."

Graves shifts his hands higher. He's holding both of Newt's hands in his one and this pulls his shoulder in a way that makes Newt's eye sight go white, just for a moment. "If I take you back outside with a team of Aurors. Can you identify them?"

"Definitely," Newt says, shifting his shoulders against the wall. "Aren't you going to cuff me, though?"

Graves huffs. "If I cuffed you how would you point?"

-

It turns out more than the one guy followed Newt to the Woolworth Building, and they're all just standing there, debating their next move down the street, when Newt exits with Graves still gripping his arm, and a small team of Aurors who look tough enough to crack Newt's rib all over again.

"Yes, it's them," Newt says, pointing with the arm Graves isn't holding. "Those conspicuous fellows in black, just there."

Graves jerks his head in that direction and the Aurors take off after a panicked looking bunch of mob lackeys. Graves keeps still, holding Newt, who is vibrating with impatience.

"Should we follow them?" Newt asks him.

Graves is staring after them but his grip on Newt is firm. "No." Graves' face is twisted in thought in a way Newt finds distractingly endearing. "I think I have to detain you," he says.

Newt rolls his eyes. "Haven't we been here enough? This is all I needed." He rolls his shoulders, gesturing down the street where two Aurors are pressing their quarries into the sidewalk and two more are in hot pursuit of third man making a real run for it.

Graves looks at him, eyes narrowed. "You can't just... threaten to expose us, every time you need me to save you."

"Can I not?" Newt says. "It's worked so far."

-

Graves makes him spend the night in lock up, which Newt thinks is quite cold. Though, the next morning Graves allows Queenie to come visit him, toting his case and a hot cup of tea, which all goes a long way towards making Newt forgive him.

"I refilled the Erumpets' food," she is saying, sitting primly with her legs crossed on the single, cold metal bench in his cell "And the Runespoor has managed to scratch off part of its little, you know, bucket-hemlet contraption-"

"Bite guard," Newt says.

Queenie waves him off. "I was too concerned for my own safety to go near it, in any case."

She notes all her work, in staggering detail, and Newt realizes just how starved for something to occupy herself Queenie has been.

"Queenie," he says, slowly. "Have you thought about asking Jacob on some sort of outing? I'm sure he wouldn't say no."

Queenie deflates. "I know," she says. She's staring at her hands in her lap, clutching the folds of her skirt in her fists. "I'm worried, well. We could be arrested. I could be, anyway. And Tina-"

"Tina would never turn you in," Newt says.

"I know that," Queenie murmurs into her lap. "I just can't. I won't put her in that position. And I don't want a relationship that's built on secrets." She huffs a little, waving her hands. "Anyway, I'll get past it some day. I've had these... infatuations before."

Newt doesn't have to say that he really thinks it's more than an infatuation. He knows Queenie can hear it in his thoughts.

-

Graves comes to let him out around lunch.

"We're going to stop by Evidence and pick up that Nundu," Graves says, and Newt angles his body so Graves' can curl his fingers around Newt's arm. He almost feels ridiculous about it, but Graves' doesn't say anything about it, doesn't even look phased, and the weight of his fingers is comforting and warm, something Newt realizes, suddenly, he needs. "But you must promise me you won't be angry."

Newt doesn't make that promise, and he is angry when he sees it. They've put it in a cell that's far too small, though it's no bigger than the one Newt had just been occupying, though Newt isn't a full grown Nundu and doesn't need nearly the same amount of space. To top it all off, they've reattached the muzzle Newt had loosened. The Nundu is pawing at the walls, clearly trying to scratch, but without his claws it's doing him little good.

"He can't breathe this way!" Newt cries. He presses himself to the bars and Nundu eyes him shyly. Newt thinks he sees a little recognition in its eyes but he can't be sure. He feels tears spring into his eyes, thinking of how long the poor thing has been stuck down here.

"I apologize. We didn't know."

"Didn't know!" Newt practically yells. "Do you know anything about Nundus?"

"No, we don't." And Graves says it with such earnestness that Newt stops abruptly, his anger crumbling completely in the face of Graves' clear willingness to listen to him, communicated through his open posture and his raised eyebrows and his pure admission of department-wide ignorance.

"Yes. Well," Newt says, and suddenly he feels an odd, prickly sensation against his hands. It's the Nundu, he realizes all at once. It's shuffled up to the bars and is pressing it's neck into Newt's hands, attempting to shuffle them toward the muzzle. It's almost like it remembers him, remembers the last time Newt loosened the muzzle for the Nundu. Newt feels a fond warmth begin to edge into his chest.

"They inflate. Just here," Newt says, gesturing to the Nundu's mane. "But this one can't until I take off this terrible thing," Newt says, tapping a finger on the muzzle.

"I'll have to ask you not to remove it until the, uh, Nundu is safely in your case," Graves says.

"Straight away then," Newt says, undoing the clasps.

"Why don't you spend the afternoon getting it acquainted with," Graves gestures vaguely, "your preservation project, there. And I'll carry the case home with me later."

Newt stiffens. "Are you keeping me trapped in your house again, Mr. Graves?"

"I should hope it sounds more like an invitation than a trap," Graves says. "But, yes."

-

Queenie has taken great care with his case, Newt finds. In fact, perhaps overmuch care. She's reorganized his entire shed, and he's finding it takes him an average of twenty minutes just to locate any singular object he used to be able to simply reach for. But he's having a hard time being angry about it since the whole place smells of oil and lemons and everything seems to shine a bit more than it used to.

She's cared for his case so well that, after introducing the new Nundu to his others--carefully, being very sure they get along--there isn't too much for him to occupy himself with. And he knows he could go back out into the real world and rejoin MACUSA and Graves for the afternoon but, well, he's missed his creatures.

He spends the hours trying to coax one of the Runespoor's heads closer to him so he can fix its bite guard. The other two heads don't mind him, and snuggle in close under his arms, snuffling aggressively at what he's sure is a veritable bouquet of interesting scents, but the third is wary, very aware of what he's up to. He's just coming to the dismaying conclusion that he's going to have to charm it still when he hears a crash from behind him, in the vicinity of his shed.

"Newt?" It's Graves' voice. "Can I come in?"

"Seems you're already quite in, Mr. Graves," Newt says, even as he lopes his way back to the shed, having decided to leave the Runespoor to itself for now.

"Yes." Graves emerges from the shed tugging at the ends of his vest to straighten it. Newt is delighted to see a few of his slicked back hairs are curling out of place and, together with his furrowed brows, Graves actually manages to look a bit shaken, something Newt has never seen before. "I meant to just step in but it's a bit of a fall, I'm afraid."

Newt feels his ears getting hot. "I suppose I thought I'd save myself the space of a staircase," he says sheepishly, but Graves doesn't seem to be listening to him. He's turning in slow circles but it's abundantly clear to Newt that the architecture of the case isn't his interest. Newt knows his case is slapdash at best: at it's heart, it's purely functional.

Graves' eyes are flitting from creature to creature and he's not gape-mouthed or wide-eyed but Newt can tell he's a bit startled, a little bit fascinated, and he can't keep his eyes still.

"Mr. Graves?" Newt ventures. He reaches for Graves' arm and stops himself.

"I apologize," Grave says, and when his eyes settle on Newt's they have a hazy, out of focus look. "I've just never seen, so many of these creatures. And all in one place." Newt can't be entirely sure, but Graves' eyes look a little shiny.

He doesn't know what else to say, so he just repeats himself. "Mr. Graves?"

"Ah," Graves says, turning so his back is to Newt and he's facing the Runespoor, all three of whose heads are staring intently in their direction. "What in the blazes is this?"

That sets off Newt's smallest tour. Graves doesn't seem to want to touch any of the creatures, just stare at them with his arms behind his back, still looking a bit rumpled, a bit glazed. Newt's fingers itch to touch him, to smooth the loose hairs down, to grip his shoulder, anything. Memories of this morning and his own fingers in Graves' shirt collar assault his nerves, so skin feels too tight and his heart too big. Newt holds a little too hand onto the Occamy in his hands, and it nips at his fingers in protest.

Newt hasn't had the time to think much about it, but the recollection of Graves' kiss not twenty-four hours ago now sits hot and solid in his chest. He's been nothing but a pain in Graves' side since he got here and now, for all intents and purposes, he's sleeping on Graves' couch. It makes Newt a little uncomfortable to depend on someone the way Graves' seems to want him to. He joked about Graves saving him every time he's in trouble, but actually remaining under his direct protection has Newt a little on edge, and the question plays on the tip of his tongue, always there through all his explanations about Erumpet mating habits and Murtlap habitats.

Newt is just explaining about the empty Thunderbird area and having to find the proper charm to handle the electricity and water the Thunderbird's changing moods tended to engender when Graves pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Am I boring you, Mr. Graves?" Newt asks, unable to mitigate the tiny hurtful sting of the thought.

Graves looks mildly mortified at this sentiment. "God, no," he says, and the apologetic look he shoots Newt feels as physical as touch. "I've just realized I've been incredibly rude. I came down here to invite you up for tea."

And that sees Newt and Graves discussing whether they can, with any ease, get the tea down into Newt's case without breaking the pot.

Newt's afraid to even touch the tea pot Graves has set on the counter in his kitchen. It's clearly expensive, and embossed with the Graves family crest. Newt almost feels like just his own hands on it would leave irreversible smudges and he hates the feeling. He's used to this sensation, settles back into it like a scratchy old coat. He felt it often with Leta: like anything he touched in her life remained stained with his low breeding, at least in comparison to hers. "If it's all the same to you," Newt says, "We can return to my case later." Newt's ravenous, and he's just waiting for his stomach to make a more vocal protest so Graves can laugh at him some more.

Graves agrees and they end up eating a small but still obviously pricey meal of ham sandwiches. Newt is absolutely sure he's never eaten such high class bread but here he is, and he's certainly never seen such a fine cut of ham, especially not on a sandwich.

"You seem nervous," Graves says.

"Yes, I," Newt stops, trying to decide how he wants to phrase this discomfort. "Why am I here, Mr. Graves?"

Graves reaches for his tea and sips. Newt feels anxiety turn the food in his stomach.

"I'm afraid I don't understand the question," Graves says eventually.

Newt fidgets. "The men following me are in lockup. Gnarlak is too, I presume. I should be safe, at least for awhile. They can't get after me that quickly. I suppose I don't understand why you, er, invited me here. Why am I not back at Tina's?" Why am I here, among all your fine things, so near the strong thrum of your magic and your increasingly messy hair?

Graves seems to process this, and he is every bit a lawman in the way nothing, not his face or his posture, gives away how he feels.

"Today, exactly one year ago, Grindelwald broke into my home."

It's not what Newt is expecting and he nearly starts, trying to reorient himself to the new conversation they seem to be having.

"He came through that door," Graves says, gesturing to the kitchen door just behind him, which Newt knows must lead to the alleyway. "No one really goes through the alley so I didn't have it as strongly charmed. He must have realized that."

Graves' whole body is getting straighter and straighter. He puts his teacup back in the saucer and runs a hand through his hair. Whatever he uses to slick it back is running out by this time of day, and his hair curls under his fingers in a few places, just a little.

"You know what happened after that. He took my wand, kept me drugged so I couldn't use my magic, imprisoned me, and impersonated me. He nearly ruined my career. Maybe my own life. It's what I assumed he wanted in the first place," Graves says. "He wouldn't kill me because my blood is pure. The Graves family is old, but you know this."

Newt nods. There's a joke in his throat, about the house and the expensive furnishings and the sandwiches, but he pushes it down, sensing it isn't the time.

Graves stares at his forefinger and thumb, pinching the handle of his tea cup, and Newt thinks again about how well he likes Graves' hands. They look rough but Newt knows they aren't. He remembers the feeling of them across his his cheeks, and he doesn't have to find a mirror to know he's flushing. Graves doesn't seem to notice.

"I know what you did. I know you didn't do it for me, but you revealed Grindelwald's deception and I think that makes you the reason I'm alive," Graves says, each word slow, heavy with how much he means it.

Newt feels his flush extend full down his face and he drops his eyes to his lap. "Oh well, I don't know that I-"

"Please. Newt," Graves says, and when Newt looks at him Graves is staring full into his face. Something about the look and the way Graves said his name makes him swallow, hard. "I brought you here, tonight of all nights, because I want to protect you from what's hunting you. I want to," a small, sad smile flits over Graves' face, "return the favor."

"Are you afraid Tina can't protect me as well as you can?" Newt says, mostly joking, trying to lighten the mood and the way the air sits around them weighted with meaning.

Graves' eyes drop to his hands again. His palms are open, facing upward. "I can't protect anyone," Graves says. "I can't even protect myself."

Newt's hands shoot across the table and he's only aware of moving when he sees his hands clutch Graves'. Graves' finger tips brush the insides of Newt's of wrists, right on his pulse points, and he suppresses a shiver at the rough drag on his sensitive skin as he grips at Graves' wrists, as hard as he dares.

"What does that mean," Newt says, and he phrases it as a question but he doesn't say it that way, too focused on being the softness he thinks Graves needs now. "What do you mean by that."

Graves won't look him in the eye. "You know Grindelwald escaped lockup. MACUSA headquarters is meant to be impenetrable and he still got out. He's out. Out there." Graves was already speaking quietly but his voice drops lower, so Newt has to lean forward to hear. "He's out there and we don't know where. If headquarters couldn't hold him what chance do I have? Here in this old house. I couldn't even keep you here," Graves says, then winces. "I mean no offense."

Newt lets out a harsh little laugh. "None taken. According to you I saved your life, after all. You can't possibly think that lowly of me."

Graves lets out a small huff of air, something like a light laugh, and begins to move his fingers. Newt nearly jumps again, and he can't stay still with the way Graves touches him, sending the tiniest bolts of electricity across his skin and down to live in the base of his spine. Graves wraps his fingers around one of Newt's wrists and turns the hand over. He begins tracing the lines of Newt's palm with a finger.

"Every now and again there's an event. Something crops up in Texas, or Boston, something obviously arbitrated by Grindelwald. We track them on a map in one of the conference rooms. Sometimes I," Graves stops himself, but doesn't stop touching Newt. And Newt is trying to listen but Graves is touching him so lightly and he wants to focus on the touch. "I go there and I look at it. Every now and again, I'll become convinced he's moving back toward the city. And I re-charm everything. That door," Graves says, nodding toward the kitchen door again, "has more magic on it than any single place in this house."

"I'm glad I didn't pick it to escape from," Newt says. Graves gives him a weak smile.

"But every time, he turns away at the last minute. Grindelwald never gets all the way here," Graves says. "The closest we've ever had an incident was in Jersey."

"Would they have sent you?" Newt asks. "To deal with the incident in New Jersey, I mean."

Graves nods tightly. "They would if it happened now. But at the time they were still trying to decide whether I was well enough to take up my previous position. As Director. Whether I was well enough or," Graves stops, and to Newt's disappointment he drops his hands completely, "worthy of it."

Newt wants to tell him how worthy he is, how he looks like an impenetrable wall from where Newt sits, how Newt has never once doubted how good he is, at his job or as a man, never felt the need to ask questions about him, like he did with Grindelwald when he was parading around as Graves. How even the way he moves is full an honesty and earnestness Newt has never seen before, but wants to be close to. But he doesn't feel like the words would mean anything to Graves coming out of his mouth. So he picks something different.

"You know, I've never felt anything but safe around you," Newt says, scooting his chair closer to Graves. "I mean you, you've slapped me in handcuffs more times than I can count by now, and you've more or less physically assaulted me but, I-" Newt nearly stops speaking when he notices Graves' shoulders are shaking. He's laughing, Newt realizes with relief.

"Maybe you're just a glutton for punishment, Mr. Scamander," Graves says, meeting his eyes, bright with laughter.

"Maybe," Newt says, moving forward out of his chair. His hands brush Graves' face, a little rough with stubble from the day. "Please call me Newt. Please."

He says those words nearly into Graves' mouth, and he's starting to panic a little because Graves isn't moving, not like he did the night previous, and Newt is beginning to wonder if he's done the wrong thing, read something into the situation that isn't there.

But then Graves says, "Newt," slow and sure, his lips moving into Newt's, and with a groan Newt is kissing him.

Newt grazes his tongue against Graves' mouth and tastes tea. Graves meets him, pulling Newt into his lap by his arms and his back until he's fully seated on Graves and Graves' hands slip down onto Newt's ass. Graves' fingers dig into Newt and he yanks Newt forward, grinding up into him.

"Ah!" Newt says, right into the kiss. He's already hard and the pressure is almost too much. Newt reaches between them for Graves' cock and he's getting there but when Newt meets his eyes Graves seems embarrassed.

"I'm not as young as I-" Graves begins.

"Shut up," Newt replies, pulling Graves mouth back into his and pushing his hips down. "We'll get there. We'll get you there."

Newt doesn't even realize he's rising until Graves presses his back against something flat and hard--the wall, he supposes, maybe the door frame-- but he's too focused on the task at hand to check, specifically his hand around Graves' cock, fingers pressing into the sensitive tip through the layers of Graves' trousers.

"Fuck," Graves says shortly into his mouth. "I"m trying to-Newt, stop for a second."

Newt realizes he's clinging to Graves, his free fingers fisted in Graves' hair, his legs wrapped around Graves' waist to press him close.

"Sorry," Newt says. He lets his head thunk back against the surface behind him, depending on Graves to keep him standing. He reaches up with a finger to trace Graves' mouth. He's got a lovely mouth, pink and bowed, and it looks especially nice now that Newt's kissed so much color into it. "I suppose I quite like kissing you."

Graves groans and he leans forward with his open mouth against Newt's neck. His hips stutter into Newt's and Newt can feel him hard against his thigh.

"That's the one," Newt says.

"I know," Graves says through another groan. "But I wanted to get you upstairs before I completely, uh, spring loose. You're distracting me."

"Ah, my mistake," Newt says. "I quite thought we were having a nice time.

-

There's much maneuvering and stumbling and laughter getting themselves up the stairs but when Graves throws him back on the bed and begins kissing him into the mattress Newt can't seem to remember what was funny. Graves fits his body into Newt's easily, his hips hitting exactly where Newt needs them, and Newt has the blistering, distracting thought that Graves has been here before. So has Newt, obviously, clearly, but that blip of a realization burns across his skin almost as hot as Graves' mouth. He likes experience, likes feeling as though he can lose himself in Graves' hands. Graves mouths at his jaw and begins to work at Newt's buttons, tugging on his rumpled shirt a little harder than Newt would like in any other instance. He gets Newt's shirt off and reaches down to grab at Newt's hips, pulling them harder into his. Graves presses his forehead into Newt's and watches, open mouthed and panting, as he rubs against Newt's cock.

"Merlin's beard," Newt says, twining his fingers through Graves' hair and thrusting up into him.

"I don't want to come in my pants, Newt," Graves says.

"Then stop doing that," Newt says.

Graves groans and reaches for the opening of Newt's trousers. Newt can barely stand the brush of Graves' fingers over his clothed cock but he does it, watches until Graves takes him in hand. Graves sits back on the upper parts of Newt's thighs and watches Newt's face as he twists his hand around Newt's cock. Newt keeps eye contact with him for a total of three tugs before his head hits the mattress with a moan.

"Ah, I'm gonna come," Newt says. "If you don't stop right now I swear I'll come, I'll do it."

"Come on," Graves says, increasing his pace. "Give it to me."

Newt does, his release painting Graves hand white and wet as he keens and his hips buck upward. And when Graves reaches up for his face with the same hand, traces his lower lip with his thumb, Newt opens his mouth for him.

"I want this," Graves says. Newt bites lightly at Graves' thumb and nods. He understands.

Graves shifts higher, so he's almost sitting on Newt's shoulders. Newt watches him undo his own trousers, not more than a few inches from his face, and his own cock jumps a little, painfully, so soon after his orgasm. Graves' pulls his cock out of his trousers and lets it fall. Precum smears against Newt's cheek, and he reaches up a hand to fit Graves into his mouth.

Graves is already breathing hard, and he's clearly trying not to move his hips so Newt reaches for him, encouraging him to move. Newt can't shift much anyway, backed into the mattress as he is.

"Oh, god," Graves says, watching at Newt hollows out his cheeks and sucks, hard. He uses a hand to stroke what he isn't getting to, the other reaches under Graves' for his balls. "Shit, ah," Graves says. He falls forward so one hand is holding his weight up above Newt, while the other hand fists in Newt's hair. His hips keep a slow but steady rhythm Newt can keep up without choking, for which he's grateful. For all his mouthiness, Graves appears to have fantastic control.

When he comes, he pulls himself out of Newt's mouth and releases on the mattress next to Newt's head. Newt tugs him through the release, trying not to feel like he missed out.

"God I want to fuck you," Graves says as he falls to the side, bouncing a little on the spring bed. "But I almost definitely can't for a good forty-five minutes."

"That's not a very impressive refractory period, old man," Newt says. Graves gives him a slightly scathing look and murmurs "scourgify," waving his hand over the mess he made on the bed. Newt knits his fingers into Graves', and Graves pulls his hand to his mouth, kissing each one of Newt's knuckles.

"I never agreed with Grindelwald. But I'm tired of living in hiding," he says. Newt has given up on keeping track of Graves' thought process so he just listens, watching Graves' mouth move against the skin of his hand. "We live lives of thorough avoidance, my entire job is avoidance. Sometimes I do nothing all day but handle possible breaches of the Statute of Secrecy, and I'm sick of it."

And Newt feels it, several things clicking together all at once like bones setting. "I think I have an idea about where you can start with that."

-

It takes weeks for Graves to convince the President that just a test run of the program is both a good idea and a worthy use of the agency's time. During those weeks, Newt takes up rather solidly in Graves' home, and the way the tired tightness of Graves' shoulders loosens into a smile and a full bodied hug every time he comes back to Newt in his shirtsleeves, doing something so typical like nursing a rather large glowing squid he calls a Marmite, or aggressively tickling the Niffler to get it to release the silver it repeatedly steals from Graves' kitchen, well, it never gets old.

And neither does the way Graves looks at his creatures, like they're these impossible things. Newt takes Graves down into his case whenever he can, lets him hold his little brood of Occamys and even gets his help with the Runespoor. Graves charms it still while Newt repairs the headpiece, though Newt almost loses a hand when Graves drops his focus and the Runespoor breaks into sudden, defensive movement. The reason he gives Newt, later, is that he was "distracted," which Newt thinks explains why he felt as though Graves' eyes were scalding his ass the entire time.

The night before the execution of Graves' new program finds Newt curled around Graves' side gently rubbing the creases out of Graves' forehead with his thumb.

"Don't worry," Newt says. "Worrying just means you suffer twice."

Graves pulls his hand from his forehead and kisses the inside of his wrist, but the creases stay.

-

Jacob is overwhelmed by the MACUSA headquarters when he enters, and Newt is overwhelmed by how easily Jacob accepted the news that they had been friends and that Newt was in fact the one that financed his bakery. Once he heard that, Jacob wouldn't stop offering him loaves for life and an unlimited supply of pastries and whathaveyou, so that by the time they get to headquarters Newt and Newt's pockets are stuffed to the brim with baked goods.

Queenie is waiting for them on the entry steps, her heeled boots tapping neatly on the marble. Queenie insisted she had no real ambition but when Tina asked her if she wanted to be head secretary for the No-Maj Licensing Program to be instated by Mr. Graves, under Tina's direct supervision, Queenie jumped at the chance.

"The hike in the pay grade won't hurt," she told Tina, but Newt doesn't believe for a minute that the high flush in her cheeks is from the notion of some extra cash.

Jacob gapes at the ceiling, extending up and up into its own storm system, and when he's done there he gapes at Queenie.

"Ey!" He says, pointing. "I remember you."

Tina's panicked eyes flick over to Graves, whose face gives away nothing, then over to the President, who stands just as impassive with her hands folded neatly in front of her.

"You've been to my shop!" Jacob continues.

Tina relaxes noticeably at that. No one can fault her for frequenting a bakery.

"Yes! I especially like the Niffler pasties you make."

Tina groans.

Newt didn't mention the kiss to Jacob on the way over. For one, he'd been explaining so many other things, and two, he assumes that's best saved for a private conversation between themselves. He's glad of it, too, as he watches Jacob loop his hand over Queenie's arm as she leads him to Tina's new office. Tina gives Newt a tired look, and follows them.

Newt begins to walk after them, but something about the look in Queenie's eyes makes him stop by Graves' side.

"Mr. Graves," the President is saying, "if this program succeeds I have no doubt that no one will question your position from here on in." Her neat eyebrows raise slightly, as she adds, "If."

"Thank you, Madam President," Graves says, inclining his head respectfully.

The President nods at him, and shoots Newt a measuring look as she turns and clicks away on the marble floor.

Newt wants to reach for Graves' hand but he isn't sure. They've never really expressed public affection and he doesn't want to make Graves uncomfortable.

Thankfully Graves appears to think much less about it. He grabs for Newt's hand and kisses the back of it, his lips dragging slightly, his breath warm.

"It's a great idea," Newt stutters out. "Licensing trusted individual wizards and witches to open up about their magic to screened No-Majs."

"It was your idea," Graves says into Newt's skin. Newt sucks on his bottom lip and tugs his hand back from Graves' mouth before he does something shameful in MACUSA headquarters.

"I suppose I should be going," Newt says. "There've been reports of Chizpurfle infestations in San Fransisco and I really should offer my expertise before they incinerate the whole city trying to get rid of the little buggers."

"Of course, Mr. Scamander," Graves says. But before Newt can stop him, Graves is reaching into his coat, hands brushing his hip, and then retreating. Graves shows him his own wand, balanced between forefinger and thumb. "As long as you have a foreigner's license for this."

Newt groans, even as he feels himself being charmed to the ground, hands magically linking behind his back with a wave of Graves' hand. "You know that I don't."

Graves shrugs. "In that case, I may have to arrest you."

"Applesauce," Newt says. But he doesn't really mean it.