Chapter Text
*
December 8, 1926
Their Jacob is a stout figure standing blankly in the rain. He blends seamlessly into the background cacophony of New York at dawn, yet this doesn’t make the separation any easier—and Tina can no longer blame subway dust for the tears in her eyes. She hesitates a moment longer, allowing them all one final look, before clasping Newt and her sister and Disapparating them home.
They materialize in the sitting room. Queenie beats a hasty retreat to the bedroom they share and closes the door firmly behind her. Tina winces, but there’s nothing she can do for her sister, so she turns her attention to someone she can help. Newt crosses the room on wobbly legs and collapses onto the couch, ravaged face hidden in filthy hands. His shoulders shake with delayed reaction, and Tina bites her lip in indecision until an idea comes to her.
She sets the kettle to boil and fetches porcelain cups the No-Maj way, allowing Newt time to compose himself. He’s watching her carefully when she returns, eyes suspiciously bright in his dirty face. She sets the tray down with an apologetic wince. “I’m all wet with domestic spells. I’m not much better doing it without magic, but maybe this will help you feel better.”
Newt chances a sip, grimaces, and sets the cup hastily aside. “Thank you,” he rasps, and his eyes fall to his pitted hands, where he morosely picks his cuticles. He makes no move to clean himself up, lost in his own misery, and Tina chews her lip indecisively before finally brushing his shoulder with a tentative hand. He goes eerily still at the contact, eyes riveted to the floor.
She keeps her voice pitched low when she speaks, using the same soothing tones she’d used on Credence beneath the city. “I know Gra—Grindelwald hurt you down there. I could hear it as I was running up the tunnel. Can I...would you let me help you clean up? I’m good at those spells, and I have some medical training.”
Tina holds her breath as she watches him swallow, his throat working. He keeps his eyes fixed on the floor when he shrugs out of his coat and passes it to Tina slowly. It’s heavier than she expects but she makes no comment, instead sending it into a corner to clean itself with a deft flick of her wand. He watches it hover while trembling hands fumble at his bow tie.
Tina doesn’t allow herself to think—she simply reaches up and takes over, sure fingers brushing his aside while plucking the knot loose and leaving it to hang around his neck. His eyes drift close as he inhales carefully, and Tina pretends not to notice his discomfort.
“Is that better?” She asks softly, and he nods. The tremble in his hands worsens when he unfastens his waistcoat, and devolves into full-body quaking while he struggles out of it.
“—Sorry—,” he manages through clenched teeth, and Tina watches his knuckles turn white. Faint worry gives over to real concern.
“I’ve got you,” Tina murmurs, working his rigid arms out of the garment. “Did he use the Cruciatus curse?” She tries to keep her voice relatively light and unconcerned. Newt shakes his head, jaw clenched.
“No. Electrical,” he manages to bite out, and Tina can hear his teeth grinding together. She frowns in thought but makes no comment.
Peeling his grimy waistcoat off reveals that his white linen shirt is stuck to him with sweat, reduced to pale translucency over his chest and shoulders. She sucks in a sharp breath as she notes the dark splotches marring his skin. She weighs her options, deciding there’s only one reasonable course of action, and steels herself for a suggestion she knows he isn’t going to like.
“I need to take your shirt off, Newt,” and maybe she’s misread the situation because he doesn’t respond. He just rolls his eyes to look at her before looking away, gaze deeply miserable. “I’m sorry,” she repeats meekly, and tries very hard not to look or think or feel as she peels the filthy shirt off him. Tina barely smothers her shocked breath at what’s underneath, and she doesn’t notice his trembling increasing as she stares.
His back and sides are riddled with the beginning of intense bruises, in all shades of blue and purple. The discolorations are interspersed with livid red lines that resemble the roots of a tree, branching down his arms to his wrists, up his neck and over his shoulders. Beneath those is a patchwork collection of scars: scratch marks and puncture wounds and burns and a smattering of star-shaped keloids that she thinks may be gunshot wounds. All of this, layered atop a motley cacophony of freckles—his skin a tome of imperfections retelling the story of a life lived rough, all stretched over toned and defined muscle.
Tina realizes she’s gaping when Newt makes a pained sound, his eyes searching her face in confusion. She snaps her jaw shut and forces her mind away from the wonder of his body, fingers shaking badly when she drops his shirt to the floor.
“You’ve been hurt,” she explains, and she clears her throat roughly when her voice cracks. “I’m going to clean you up, and then I have some salve for the bruises. I don’t think I have anything for the...burns. I’m sorry.” Newt remains entirely passive as Tina uses her wand to summon a soft cloth, a basin of water, and a variety of unguents from the small medical supply cabinet. The items line themselves neatly on the small table, a row of perfect soldiers which Tina sets upon eagerly.
The shaking really can’t be helped but she suspects a calming draught may alleviate it somewhat, so she starts there. She pours the potion past his lips and over his clenched teeth and he swallows it convulsively, eyes never leaving her face. She ignores his stare. The potion takes effect almost immediately, causing his eyes to glaze and turn distantly hazy while the tremors work themselves out. He’s still incredible tense, wound tightly enough to snap, but his skin no longer ripples with reaction so she counts that as a victory. Newt sighs deeply through a tight jaw, and his hooded eyes convey thanks before he blinks them closed.
Tina is immeasurably relieved when his oceans of green-gold are hidden behind delicately purple lids. No longer feeling scrutinized, she moves with confidence as she wets the flannel and gently pats the damp cloth over the worst of the bruising. She can smell him from this proximity, a sharp tang of spent adrenaline and masculine sweat, over an earthier scent she catalogs as simply Newt. She responds to these odors on some visceral level, and carefully doesn’t consider the ramifications of her reaction.
Newt exhales shakily when she unscrews the lid of bruise salve, and a line works between his eyebrows as he opens his eyes to watch her dry his skin with a spell before scooping out a generous dollop. “This is going to be very cold,” she squeaks through a dry throat. He shrugs tersely and hunches his shoulders when she shifts closer. Tina takes a fortifying breath before rubbing the paste in, noting that he holds his breath and clenches his eyes shut when her fingers brush against him. She catalogs the texture of his skin while she works, committing it to memory and plastering a clinical expression on her face, feeling anything but objective.
Tina can’t help lingering for a moment or two past the saturation point of the ointment. His skin fascinates her, despite her efforts to remain impersonal. Fine tremors transmit through where they touch until she breaks contact and switches to healing his other shoulder. His breathing is ragged by the time she’s finished, each exhale ending in a high-pitched wheeze, and she can see him watching her carefully from the corner of his eye. The angle of his head and the look in his eyes reminds her of those terrible moments in the Death Chamber, where they’d both come so close to ending, and she shudders involuntarily.
Newt grimaces while cutting his eyes away. “Thank you,” he croaks, and Tina firms the line of her mouth. She vanishes the filthy water before cleaning and refilling the basin.
“You can take a bath tomorrow. Well, later today, I guess,” she murmurs as she scrubs the back of his neck. “I don’t think you can manage it now. You’re liable to drown.” Her voice is intentionally light, almost unconcerned, and he snorts something halfway between a laugh and a sob. Something in Tina’s chest squeezes painfully at the sound, and she swallows against the lump in her throat as she moves onto his hair. It crackles with holdover static, stubbornly resisting her attempts at cleaning it until she frustratedly casts a series of imperviousness charms and uses her wand to douse him.
He looks like a drowned kneazle as he stares at her, all straggly hair and feline intensity with water trickling down his neck. Tina chokes back a semi-hysterical giggle and dries him before raising the cloth to his face. His hand flashes up to clamp manacle-hard fingers around her wrist, and Tina freezes.
Newt dampens his lips, tongue a flash of pink in the low light, and searches her face. He relaxes his grip in increments and drops his eyes to her shoes. “My hands are still too shaky,” he admits on an unsteady exhale, and she has the sense that this confession costs him a great deal. “Do watch my eyes, they’ve itched terribly since we returned.”
Tina cleans his face with maternal tenderness, dabbing the grit out of his eyes while he sighs and finally, finally relaxes into the cushions. The rasp of his three-days stubble against her fingers sends a pleasant tingle down her spine, and Newt swallows and swallows, eyes tracing her every movement when she dabs at the ledge of his jaw and down the column of his throat. Then it’s his chest and stomach, and he’s once again breathing carefully.
She presses hard into his sides, hearing his small grunt of surprise but no hint of pain. “No broken ribs,” she declares with palpable relief, and chances a small smile. He narrows his eyes at her warily before focusing to the left of her face. Tina smothers a sigh and resumes her task.
“Thank you,” he husks when Tina finishes, and she ducks her head in acknowledgement. She dries him with a spell then knits her hands together, looking him over with a critical eye. He’s clean enough, and the bruises have faded considerably. Still, the strange lines are a vivid, painful mantle over his back and arms, and he trembles with the after-effects of spellshock. Goosebumps chase over his skin and Tina engages in a fierce internal debate. Newt watches this without comment, until her common sense wins out.
“I think you just need to sleep,” she finally decides, instead of take off your pants and let me clean the rest of you. It’s a wildly inappropriate thought, but she knows he’s going to have to sleep on the couch and she’s not sure she’ll ever be able to get the dust or his scent out—to say nothing of the memories.
Tina swallows down the strange, watery feeling in her chest and sends all her supplies back to the medicine chest. She squats to remove his boots and cast a gentle Scorgify on his lower half, along with as a series of protective charms on the couch. She then takes his arm to help him recline, fine muscles stiff and unyielding beneath her fingers, and covers him with her mother’s afghan.
Newt closes his eyes and relaxes into the cushions. Tina lingers uncertainly. She wants to pull him close and brush the hair away from his brow. She also wants to flee the room and hide in a corner to pick at the confused knot of her feelings. Frozen with indecision, she hovers until he opens his eyes and looks at her questioningly, his gaze disarmingly direct. She grimaces awkwardly and fumbles back a few steps. “Um. You...sleep. I’ll go, uh—Queenie. I’ll go check on Queenie.”
Calloused, trembling fingers tentatively reach out to touch her wrist. “Thank you,” he says, eyes earnest where they meet hers, and Tina blinks away sudden tears. They stare until the moment draws out into awkwardness, and Newt drops his hand to settle more comfortably on the couch. He sighs deeply and much of the tension leaves his frame when his eyes drift close.
Tina watches this reticent, careful man drop his guard, eyes lingering on his face as she enjoys the warmth suffusing her chest. Then she snaps herself out of the trance he’d induced and starts toward the bedroom—only to change course abruptly and cross the room in three strides. She closes the apartment door behind her and trots down the hall to the communal bathroom, where she leans her forehead against the mirror and runs the hot water until the glass fogs over. Her eyes prickle, her hands shake, and she isn’t sure if it’s exhaustion, relief or something else entirely making her feel so raw.
Pull it together, Tina admonishes herself sternly, but she can’t shake off the feel of storied skin beneath her fingers. She can’t forget the gleam in his eyes as she stripped him, or the elegance of his fine build, or the way his hair had felt between her fingers. Even the scent of him, something she knows intellectually should have been unpleasant, had worked its way into and through her, curling around forgotten places and lighting sparks in the darkness. Enough!
Tina summons her toiletry bag and a clean set of pajamas, and brushes her teeth while determinedly not thinking about the man sprawled on her couch. She strips and takes a bath, water temperature just this side of too-hot in an attempt to scorch away the thoughts of him. It doesn’t work; if anything, the heat intensifies her imaginings, her feelings, until she’s breathless with frustration.
She very determinedly ignores her hardened nipples as she scrubs until her skin is pink and raw. She can’t ignore the trickle of heat that flares to life when she washes the juncture of her thighs, and Tina groans and knocks her head against the side of the tub. “No,” she tells her libido firmly, and determinedly dries and dresses herself.
Newt is deeply asleep when she tiptoes back into the apartment. His head is canted at an angle and the blanket has slipped, revealing his wholly masculine chest. Tina bites her lip while creeping closer and tucking the afghan snugly around his shoulders. He shifts and murmurs, eyes tightening in response to a dream, before settling back down with a sigh. The sound sets her nerve ending alight, all prior admonishments forgotten. Heart pounding, Tina takes one last long look before creeping away, feeling simultaneous guilty and almost unbearably aroused. This is not good, she thinks, and flees into her bedroom.
Thoughts of Newt fly away when she finds her sister crumpled on her bed, deeply asleep. Queenie’s still in her good about-town dress, shoes kicked to the side with a crumpled hankie clutched in one hand. Tina’s heart wilts at the sight. She tugs a blanket over her sister and Queenie whimpers in her sleep. Tina crawls into her sister’s bed and pulls her into her arms. She presses a kiss into her forehead and Queenie sighs and presses deeper into her side. She’s deeply asleep again moments later.
Tina frets until exhaustion takes her—bitterly questioning the wisdom of the law, wondering at Newt’s actions and the way he looked at her and what it all means, and fearful of what the future holds.
*
Tina achieves a soupy vestige of consciousness sometime past noon, if the position of the sun is to be believed. She wakes alone, neatly nestled in her sister's bed, and frowns before the memory of the previous evening and very early morning floods back in. Queenie, she thinks, and then, Newt!
She springs from the bed and stumbles across the room, flinging open the pocket doors. She isn’t sure what she expects to find—her sister wringing her hands in agony, perhaps, or maybe Newt sprawled over the couch and begging for her. It isn’t Queenie blandly stirring something that smells like eggs in a skillet, or Newt bending over carefully to retrieve something from his case. Tina gapes, momentarily flummoxed.
“Good morning, Teenie,” her sister says softly, and Newt cranes his head to look over his shoulder. His hair is damp and he’s mostly dressed, freshly-pressed waistcoat and bow tie hanging loose. He’s scrubbed pink and clean, and the only thing that gives away his troubles of earlier are the purple crescents of sheer exhaustion beneath his eyes. He’s also clean-shaved, the ledge of his jaw smooth and burnished in the light from the window, and that intriguing notion causes Tina to gulp. Newt stands, carriage still a bit stiff, and smiles awkwardly.
“Tina. Good morning.” His eyes meet hers for only a second before skittering away, and she experiences a pang. Before it can take root, however, Newt slowly pulls out a chair and indicates for her to sit. She notices a citrus, woodsy scent clinging to him, and it takes her a moment to realize that it’s his aftershave. Her knees knock together and unhinge while she collapses into the chair.
“The younger Miss Goldstein’s cooking breakfast, though I suppose it’s actually lunch,” Newt murmurs, genially ignoring her struggle with gravity. “She insists that I need to eat, and I suspect she’s right. You are also in need of sustenance, and I need help with my creatures—I’m still quite sore, you see. After we’ve fed ourselves, if you are amenable, would you be willing to join me down in my case?”
Newt speaks mostly to his place-mat, but Tina can see the worried furrow between his brow, the way restless fingertips map the grain of the table. He wants my company, she realizes slowly, and simple joy suffuses her. “Of course, Newt,” she replies happily, and gives him her most winsome smile. It dazzles him and seems to make him forget himself, just as she’d intended. He holds her gaze with no sign of hesitation, eyes wide and hopeful with newfound understanding. Then awkwardness sets in and they both drop their eyes to mumble trivialities.
“Oh, you two,” Queenie huffs, and if it’s a pale, gray imitation of her usual vivacity, no one comments on it. Instead, they tuck into the food with relish, heartened by the December sun and the warmth of familiarity.
*