This story was originally published on February 13th, 2018 and is being included here for the sake of continuity.
Warning: none. It's fluff, though there are hints of past Newt/Leta... ;)
Newt's on his fourth circuit of the soggy main deck when he stops at the bow to look out over the expanse of water, breathing deeply of the crisp ocean air.
New York City is a dream behind him, and out here with only the seagulls for company, Newt can admit, if only to himself, that the trip, which was intended to settle the issue of his heart, had only served to stir up its own romantic storm.
He takes a deep breath and holds it before exhaling through puffed-out cheeks, watching the playful wind bat away the foggy tatters. He fetches another, welcoming the sting of frigid autumn air in his lungs before leaning forward to watch the waves surrender to the prow of the ship.
Even out here, in the vast solemnity of nature, there was no getting around it: he was at a crossroads and whichever path he chose would ruin someone's life...most likely his own.
On the one hand, there was Leta: cruelly beautiful, cunning and adept at fickle wizarding politics, and always there in her oblique way to encourage him. Comfortable and familiar, occasionally cutting in her words, but that was simply her manner. Newt would never expect a creature to apologize for their base nature, especially one as majestic and imperious as her. If he wound up on the sharp side of her tongue more often than he would like, well, he had only himself to blame.
On the other, there was Tina: uncompromisingly beautiful, kind to a fault, and nearly as gawky and awkward as he. Exciting and new, though quickly filling the vacancies of his heart, steadfast and silently supportive, she was unfailingly gentle in reproach, if unapologetically blunt, and determined to leave the world a better place. Newt couldn't even be sure her tongue had a sharp side, but he knew it had a soft one.
Well. He should know, shouldn't he? Because Merlin knew Tina had been more than judicious in its application over the duration of his visit...
The wind gusts and Newt growls, abruptly furious with his own indecisive heart when sea spray spatters his raw face.
A cautious peep sounds from his breast pocket, and Newt looks down to find Pickett watching him, beady black eyes intent on his face as the bowtruckles' crown leaves wilt sadly.
"I know, Pickett," Newt murmurs after a calming sigh, and strokes between his stalks with a gentle finger. "I miss her too."
Pickett chirrups again, more emphatically this time, earning a shaky smile.
"You're right, of course," Newt agrees, turning his face toward the sun just as it breaks through the heavy veil of clouds. "I am being rather ridiculous, aren't I? All this dithering…"
The bowtruckle gives one more approving peep before lovingly pinching his finger and sinking back into the warmth of his pocket. Newt smiles down at him fondly, manfully tamping the urge to grin when the steady calm of certainty fills him, as warm and predictable as the sun returning after a rainstorm.
Newt returns to his cramped steerage room with a new spring in his step, whistling off-key as he sheds his jackets and allows Pickett to climb into his hair. He doesn't allow himself time to overanalyze when he fetches stationary and his favorite pen, squaring them with the edge of the desk before taking a deep breath.
Pickett reaches down to soothingly pat his cheek and Newt smiles up at him while reaching for a sheet of paper. "Whom should I write first?" he wonders aloud. "The one whose heart I'll possibly break, or the one whose heart I hope someday to win?"
The bowtruckle makes an impatient sound and Newt grins. "You're right; we'll start with the bad news because it's best to get the unpleasant business of the way. That's very wise of you, Pickett."
Newt takes a deep breath and shakes the tremor out of his fingers before reaching for his pen. Sliding his hand across the desk inexplicably strengthens his resolve, spurring him into further certainty, and he can't even be sure why he was so nervous in the first place when he sets the nib to paper and begins to write, the words flowing from someplace steady deep within him.
Dear Leta...
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