Kowalski's Bakery was one of New York's best kept secrets.

In fact, it was so well kept that the only people Detective Percival Graves ever saw in there were Jacob Kowalski, the owner; his girlfriend and – surprisingly – his Dom, Queenie Goldstein (and yes, her given name was actually 'Queenie' – Percival had looked it up); and Queenie's sister Tina, who just so happened to be a junior officer with the New York Police Department, and the reason Percival himself knew about the bakery.

There was such a dearth of other customers that Percival frequently wondered how the place managed to stay open. He considered money laundering and/or mob connections, but Tina was such a stickler for the law that he couldn't see her ignoring something like that, let alone patronising the place.

Maybe Jacob was just independently wealthy.

Queenie's breathy voice interrupted his thoughts. "More coffee, honey?"

Percival automatically placed a hand over his cup while he thought past the tug of Queenie's 'order'. The younger Goldstein was an immensely effective Dom. He'd even known other Doms rush to do whatever she suggested, without ever seeming to realise what had happened.

"No, thanks," Percival said, finally. "I think I've reached my limit for the day."

"If you're sure, honey," Queenie said cheerfully. "You want the check?"

Percival shook his head. "Not yet. I'm supposed to be meeting Tina." He pulled out his pocket watch and flipped it open. "She's late," he noticed, frowning.

Queenie had just opened her mouth, no doubt to reassure him, when the bakery door swung open, preceding the entrance of the very person herself.

"Honey, Tina's here!" Queenie called towards the rear of the bakery, before beaming at her sister. "Your ears musta been burning," she teased.

Tina Goldstein glanced at Percival and winced. "Sorry I'm late, sir," she said, "but I ran into someone on my way here—"

"Newt!" came the delighted cry from both Queenie and Jacob, who had just emerged from the kitchen.

The man who shuffled in behind Tina looked nothing like a 'Newt', and Percival wondered how on earth he'd ended up with a name like that. He looked, in fact, like he'd give a great deal to be able to blend into his surroundings, although he gave a bashful smile to Queenie and Jacob.

Queenie hurried forward and swept him into a tight hug, almost dislodging the suitcase he was gripping. "Oh, Newt, honey, it's so good to see you!" she exclaimed into his shoulder. "Why didn't you write and tell us you was comin'?" She drew back from Newt and carried on before he could answer her. "Come, sit," she said. "Jacob'll get some of those little pastries you like, you know the ones…"

"Ah, no. Thank you, really, but no," Newt said, resisting Queenie's attempt to steer him to a chair. "I can't stay long, you see. I'm meeting someone, and I'm already late, but I ran into Tina—"

Percival's jaw dropped as Newt backed towards the door, still babbling excuses. He'd never seen anyone be able to defy an order from Queenie, and this Newt looked as if he was the most submissive Sub to ever go on record.

Tina shook her head as she slid into the chair opposite Percival. "I am sorry, sir," she began, "but Newt's a friend of ours, and—"

Percival held up a hand, and her voice trailed off. "It's fine, Goldstein," he assured her. "Now, did you look over the file on the Hebron case…?"

Two days later, Percival entered Kowalski's Bakery to find it busier than he'd ever seen it. By which he meant Newt was ensconced at a table near the front window. Queenie was fluttering around him, obviously excited, which Newt appeared to be tolerating quite well.

"Be with ya in a sec, honey," Queenie all but sang as Percival headed for his usual table, two over from where Newt was sitting. She reached him just in time to help him shrug off his overcoat. "What'll it be, sugar?" she asked, making no move to pull out a pad. Queenie had a better memory than most people, including Percival himself, and he'd worked hard to develop an almost photographic memory.

"Coffee, black, no sugar, and one of those, please," he requested, indicating a case filled with large animal-shaped pastries.

"Coffee and an erumpent, comin' right up!" said Queenie, and bustled off. Percival blinked after her. What on earth is an erumpent? he wondered.

"Ah . . . hello," came a voice from his left. Percival turned to see Newt looking at him inquisitively. "You were in here before, weren't you? I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to introduce myself. My name's Newt Scamander."

"Detective Percival Graves," replied Percival. He paused for a second but was too intrigued not to ask. "Your parents actually gave you the name Newt?"

To his surprise, rather than being offended, Newt just smiled at him. It was a fairly small one, as smiles went, but it still lit up his eyes, and Percival's breath hitched in response.

"Actually, they gave me the name 'Newton'," said Newt, and Percival had to struggle to pick up the conversation again. "It could have been worse; they named my brother Theseus."

Theseus. Theseus Scamander. Why does that name ring a bell?

Percival blinked as it came to him. "Your brother is one of the members of the Grindelwald task force?" he asked, feeling his breath hitch for an entirely different, decidedly less pleasant, reason.

Don't think about it, don't think about HIM and what he made you do, he isn't here…

Newt looked at him, smile fading, and Percival realised he hadn't controlled his expression well enough or fast enough. "He is," he agreed, softly. "But I'm not. I'm a wildlife expert; I travel the world looking for creatures to study. I'm writing a book, you see—"

It took a while, but eventually Newt's casual rambling allowed Percival to relax again. He finally noticed that Queenie hadn't brought his order yet.

"Has she gone to grow the coffee from scratch?" he wondered out loud.

"Ah." Newt suddenly looked abashed. "I'm afraid that might be my fault. Queenie's decided that I need someone in my life, and she takes every opportunity to give me 'chances'." A flush was creeping along Newt's cheekbones, which Percival watched in fascination. "I really am so sorry; I'll have a word with her about it." He began to rise, as if determined to go and do so there and then.

Percival held a hand out to stop him. "It's fine. I'm sure she'll be right out any second now," he said, his voice slightly louder than normal.

"Sure am, honey," Queenie responded, bustling from the kitchen as though she'd been on her way at precisely that moment. She placed Percival's items on his table and then stepped back, smiling between him and Newt. "You guys need anythin' else?"

"No, thank you, Queenie," Newt replied through gritted teeth. He shook his head as Queenie all but skipped off again. "I really am sorry," he said yet again.

Percival's lips twitched as he reached for the coffee. "Providing it doesn't become a habit, then it's fine," he said. "After all, it's not like you can stop her."

Over the next couple of weeks, they somehow slid into a routine, until they were regularly sharing a table and pastries (but not coffee, as Newt was a heathen Brit who only drank tea). If he really stopped to think about it, Percival was surprised that he'd actually begun to open up to Newt. He hadn't felt this connected, this safe, with anyone since before Grindelwald.

Which, naturally, meant it wasn't long before it all went to hell.

They'd gotten reports of a team of smugglers dealing in exotic animals, so Percival had requested Newt come along with his team to deal with any critters they might find.

What they actually found was two dozen heavily armed smugglers, who didn't take kindly to the idea of their operation being halted.

"Put your weapons down!" Percival ordered for a second time, his own gun aimed steadily at what he thought was the ringleader.

The man grinned nastily at him. "No, you put your weapons down," he retorted. From the corner of his eye, Percival saw two of his team actually begin to lower their guns before snapping out of it.

Shit! The criminal was a Dom.

Even as he frantically tried to think of a plan, Newt stepped forward, ignoring Percival's admonishing glare. What was the idiot doing?

"I'm sorry," Newt murmured to him, then turned to face the smugglers. He abruptly straightened, his spine going stiff and shoulders squaring. He lifted his chin and eyed them disdainfully. "Put your weapons down and kneel with your hands behind your heads," he ordered, and even his voice had changed. It was deeper, with a purr that shivered up Percival's spine and sank into his brain.

Almost before he registered the action, the smugglers – and Percival's team – had dropped their guns and fallen to their knees.

Ohfuckohfuckohfuck, Percival's mind gibbered as his heartbeat sped up.

Newt – meek, mild, submissive Newt – was a Dom. Not only that, he was the strongest Dom Percival had ever come across. He could make them do anything…

Warm hands on his face jolted him out of his incipient panic. "Breathe," Newt said, softly. "Calm. Think. This is just until the job is done, then you don't have to listen to me anymore."

It didn't have the timbre of an order, but Percival felt his heart rate slowing anyway. His breathing evened out, and the feeling returned to his fingers. He blinked at Newt, then nodded once as Newt removed his hands. The rest of Percival's team were already up and collecting the smugglers. Percival felt a small spurt of shame go through him, tinged with anger. Once again, his biology had caused his choices to be taken from him, leaving him at the mercy of somebody else.

It was a terrible weakness to have. After the Grindelwald debacle, Percival had worked hard to ensure that it – he – wouldn't be such a liability ever again. And now, here he was, having not just his actions but his very emotions dictated by another.

What was even more galling – or would have been if he'd allowed himself to really consider it – was that he had to rely on Newt's 'order' to be calm to enable himself to get the rest of the job done. He had to keep reminding himself that he wasn't allowed to fall apart right then, so he wasn't really following orders because he had no choice, but as a tool to aid him in his job.

Never mind that he shouldn't fucking need a tool or a crutch at all.

Breathe. Calm. Think, he reminded himself yet again.

Repeating the mantra got him through the next few hours; through the arrests, the search of the facility, the gathering of evidence, overseeing the questioning of the prisoners, and the reports, both written and verbal, to Commander Seraphin Picquery.

Then he was finally walking through his own front door, and he could finally let himself go…

When he came back to himself some unknown time later, Percival was curled into a foetal position in his front hallway, his chest aching and his head pounding, his lungs heaving as he gasped for air.

Levering himself up to a sitting position, Percival leant against the nearest wall. Perhaps, he reflected ruefully, it was time he left the NYPD. He couldn't in all conscience carry on working if he suffered a breakdown every time he encountered a Dom. He'd managed to hide it this time, but eventually it'd come out, and he'd lose the respect he'd worked so hard to earn.

Pushing aside thoughts of a life without the police force, he rose to his feet and went in search of any liquor he might have hiding somewhere. He didn't drink often – especially not with Prohibition going on – but if ever a day deserved a drink, it was this one.

"Detective Graves!"

Percival automatically looked round, even though he hadn't been a detective for six months now.

Heading across the street towards him, darting around the occasional motor car, was Tina Goldstein. She was followed, rather more hesitantly, by Newt Scamander. Percival felt his heartbeat skip at the sight of him, and wasn't certain if it was because of delight or nerves.

"Sir, it's so good to see you," gasped Tina breathlessly as she reached him. "Queenie was so worried!"

"Ms Goldstein. Mr Scamander," Percival responded, tipping his head as Newt finally reached them, too. "My apologies for worrying you all."

Because he was damn sure it hadn't just been Queenie Goldstein who had been concerned when he'd left the force and stopped going to Kowalski's Bakery. He hadn't even given a thought as to how his departure might affect Tina. She was a junior officer, but mostly-unofficially her role was 'coffee girl', and some of the older male officers had made no bones about the fact they much preferred it that way.

But Percival had seen the potential and the ambition in her, and had taken her under his wing, so to speak. He had been giving her cases that were not quite cold to look through, and had been preparing the groundwork to bring her in on one of his team's newer cases in the near future.

And in his bid to avoid exposing weakness, he had destroyed all of that.

Guilt swamped Percival, and he swallowed hard. "Ms Goldstein," he began, and then paused, unsure how to even begin apologising for his actions.

Tina smiled at him. "Whatever you're trying to say, there's no need, sir," she said. "As it happens, I was the only one who knew all your remaining cases and what stage they were at. Commander Picquery officially promoted me to Director's Assistant."

Percival stared at her in astonishment. It wasn't that Commander Picquery was a narrow-minded man – on the contrary, he'd vocalised his support for women taking on active roles in the force on many occasions – but this was more than he would have expected. The Director of Law Enforcement oversaw the entire department, second only to Picquery himself. Percival had been in line for the job, and rumour had had it that he would have been selected within a few months.

"Congratulations," he said, finally. Then he smiled. "I'm sure it won't be long before your next promotion is to detective."

"Detective, hell," Tina sniffed, grinning widely. "I'll make Director!" She glanced away as the faint sound of a bell tolling the hour came to them. "But to do that, I have to dash. It really is good to see you, sir," she said, beginning to back away down the street, raising her voice as she went. "Drop by the Bakery sometime!" She disappeared around a corner, and left Percival standing on the sidewalk.

With Newt Scamander.

The man was fidgeting nervously as he glanced sideways at Percival. "I'm so sorry," he abruptly blurted, and then immediately blushed the brightest red Percival had ever seen anyone turn. "I didn't realise I would affect you so badly – Tina explained – Grindelwald – really am sorry—"

Percival held up a hand, and Newt's words trailed off. "You really have nothing to apologise for," Percival informed the other man. "You had a way of stopping a criminal from escaping, and you used it. If it hadn't been you then, it would have been somebody later. I'm . . . damaged, Mr Scamander," he added, frankly. "I sincerely doubt I will ever manage to be a Sub for anyone ever again."

"Oh, no, that's—" Newt began to protest, but Percival shook his head.

"I've made my peace with it," he said. "And when Grindelwald is finally captured, then so much the better. But, I repeat, you don't need to apologise for my weakness."

Newt scowled at him. "It's not weakness," he said, indignant on Percival's behalf. "It's trauma!"

"Whatever it is, I've made my peace," Percival repeated. He pulled his pocket watch out to check the time. "Now, if you're not too busy and could spare a moment, I believe I was just invited to turn to a certain establishment that produces some of the best pastries in New York…" He snapped the watch shut and returned it to his pocket as he raised an eyebrow at Newt.

Expression clearing, Newt studied him for a moment, and Percival could actually see the Dom behind the man's eyes, looking for something in him. He couldn't tell whether Newt found it or not, but slowly, the other man's mouth curved upwards into a smile.

"I can spare a moment for good pastries," he agreed. "And for good company, I think I can spare even more; don't you?"

Percival did.