This story was originally published on Ao3 on May 5th, 2018, and is being included here for the sake of unpleasantness.
Warnings: wartime angst and bloodiness, major character death (though, it's technically canon) and some smut...
War is simultaneously both more and less than Tina Goldstein ever expected.
She knew of the trials inherent to battle, of course; every newspaper headline during the latter half of her Ilvermorny years had driven that point home. Unlike the British, American wizards were both welcomed and encouraged to join the war effort. She remembers well the black-banded owls which would deliver bad news to students over breakfast.
But she never expected the boredom: for every day of manic activity, there were three days, ten, twenty where absolutely nothing happened. It got to the point where, when something did occur, when skirmishes broke out or she was forced to interrogate a potential spy, she felt stupid and fat and slow, reaction time and senses dulled by boredom and stalled momentum.
At the end of each exhausting day, she wished for nothing more than to go home.
They meet with a contingent of British Aurors on the continent, a group led by one Theseus Scamander.
Director Graves and Director Scamander greet each other like...not friends, precisely, but colleagues who've worked well together in the past and harbor an intense mutual respect. Tina observes them carefully: both men shorter than you'd expect, their visages simultaneously dark and fair yet exuding unmistakable power.
Theseus looks nothing like his brother, and that makes greeting him with a straight face a little easier.
He gives her a coolly appraising look upon hearing her name, murmuring a respectful word about her previous advances against Grindelwald and squeezes her fingers before moving onto the next Auror.
Her hand tingles for the remainder of the day.
They begin to feel the pinch in the Netherlands, food, and supplies held up by the endless bureaucracy inherent to ventures done in the name of international cooperation.
Tent sharing is proposed by Graves, who raises more than a few good points. Tina is, in a way, relieved: she's never slept well alone, and hearing Auror Smith's constant, steady breathing is sure to bring peaceful sleep.
Which it does, at first; but then Belgium happens, and she wakes Smith with nightmares as much as Smith wakes her, until a truce is called and they alternate muffling spells each night with the solemn vow that one will wake the other in case of attack.
It helps. For a while, at least.
They've been in Yugoslavia for more than two months, their mission temporarily stalled, when Theseus bursts out of the command tent.
He sprints across camp to the edge of the wards, not bothering with his wand as he Disapparates. Tina is on the verge of following him when Graves trails in his wake, ruefully shaking his head. She notices with a start that he looks thinner than normal, drawn; drained. A quick glance around and she frowns when she realizes they all do — tired and grey and almost transparent with exhaustion.
A glance at her too-large slacks, the hem caked with the constant mud of European autumn and her belt with its new, higher holes, makes her mouth twist in unhappy realization.
The edge of the wards shimmer, and she's just reaching for her wand when Theseus reappears. He isn't alone. There's a man beside him, tall and wiry, with rangy red-gold hair and bright eyes that take in the camp with no lack of curiosity. Those eyes skate over the tents and the mud before landing on her with an almost physical weight.
They widen in recognition, and she finds herself moving toward him before she's had a chance to reconsider it.
"Tina," Newt Scamander breathes, and reaches for her hands, squeezing them. "You are a sight for sore eyes, I must admit."
She's grinning so widely it hurts. "Newt," she says and examines his face. He's a little leaner, perhaps, a bit more weather-beaten. His skin is deeply tanned, and his eyes shine at her from a nest of happy wrinkles when he smiles. "You're...exactly the same," she decides and laughs for the first time in what feels like years.
He squeezes her again, grinning unabashedly, his thumbs rubbing soothing crescents over her knuckles until Theseus clears his throat pointedly. Newt drops her hands as if burnt, expression closing off when he looks away. She succeeds in not being hurt by this, but only because all the memories the sight of him had managed to temporarily banish are returning.
She had not realized how very much she missed him; he and his letters.
"I will find you later, Tina," he says, catching her eyes. "I swear it."
"Yeah. Sure," she nods and manages a smile that feels as weak as the sun filtering through the clouds.
Then Theseus is dragging him away, already rapping about dragons and front-lines, and Tina clasps her hands before her as she watches him go.
The river is wide but shallow, the placid waters warm. She wades to her knees, trousers rolled over her thighs as she drags her laundry into the current. She could do this with magic, but her body craved movement after a seeming lifetime of inactivity; so she had made excuse and gone to the river, one of the few places where she could be truly alone.
She sings as she works, an effect adopted from Queenie, hardly aware she's doing it.
"I am a maid of constant sorrow,
I've seen trouble all my day
I bid farewell to old Kentucky,
The place where I was born and raised."
There's clay caked into the seam of her trousers. She attacks it with the strongest bar of soap she could find, grinding it into the fabric as she intones the second verse, her thoughts drifting serenely.
"For six long years, I've been in trouble,
No pleasures here on earth I found
For in this world I'm bound to ramble,
I have no friends to help me now."
The river carries away suds and mud and her sense of disconnection as she scrubs her clothes on a convenient rock. She whips the water out of them in tight, circular movements before flinging them over her shoulder, mumbling an Impervious charm to keep from soaking herself.
She's opening her mouth to give voice to the third verse when a warm, surprisingly soulful tenor rises behind her, seeming to caress her ears, making her shiver.
"It's fare thee well, my old lover," it sings, and she closes her eyes when she recognizes that voice—
"I never expect to see you again
For I'm bound to ride that northern railroad,
Perhaps I'll die upon this train."
Tina swallows thickly before joining him on the chorus, holding the final note until it cracks and wavers in the air.
"Perhaps he'll die upon this train."
A splash of water and she turns to find Newt wading in to join her — white shirtsleeves rolled to his elbow, trousers hitched past his knees, and without the benefit of waistcoat or suit jacket. She can see the shape of his torso through his shirt, and she swallows thickly when he stops at her side, ducking his head before moistening his lips.
"I heard you singing when I was walking up," he explains in a murmur, and she only now notices the bundle under his arm. "I'm terribly sorry that I interrupted you, but you have a lovely voice and that song is a particular favorite of mine."
That would make sense, she thinks and wordlessly hands him the bar of soap.
Newt inclines his head in thanks, and they work together to finish their respective laundry before spreading their clothing over a clean rock to dry, sitting in companionable silence as around them, nature swells and calls.
Newt leaves a few days later, but not without a quick and intimate goodbye.
"I will see you again in Russia," he promises, and his heart is in his eyes when he presses a kiss to her forehead before exiting the tent.
Tina listens to the distinct cadence of his footfalls, so loud in the silence of the camp at midnight, and wraps herself in the blue wool he's left behind for her.
Sleep is a long time in coming.
Skirmishes break out between them and the forces of Dark in Finland, stupid conflicts borne of stress and frustration more than any true ill-will. Still, people die and people are injured and people are sent home, and what started as a robust detachment limps into Russia little more than a splinter faction, hollow-eyed, cold, and hungry.
Tina is the only constant in her tent during this time; they lose Smith somewhere in Lithuania, and she's too exhausted to care that she can't remember the specifics. A string of bunk-mates, both male and female follow, and she struggles with the guilt of being alive and whole each time one of them is lowered into the ground.
Newt's coat keeps her warm, and she smells the persistently-lingering traces of his aftershave and cologne even in her sleep.
They're in Volkhov when Newt rejoins their party, looking thinner and more exhausted than ever, but unmistakably happy to be back in her presence.
Theseus eyes them narrowly before assigning him to her tent.
For the first time in a long while, Tina feels something other than hunger and cold.
They start sharing a bunk less than a week later, quietly and without fanfare.
A nightmare inspires her to crawl beneath his blankets in the hazy dark of midnight, and Newt makes a soothing sound before hooking his arm around her waist, pulling her close.
"Goodnight, Tina," he murmurs, and she closes her eyes.
There's no shortage of anger and frayed nerves when it is decided that a Russian winter is harder than any of them had anticipated, and hunkering down until spring is the best decision.
"We won't have enough food!" one Auror rightfully points out. Theseus and Graves share a heavy look before declaring that hunting, combined with replicating spells, was the best possibility of mitigating starvation.
"There isn't enough clothing or blankets!" another declares, and Newt points out that this isn't so different from what many of them had endured during the Great War, and that perhaps shifts and rotations were in order.
"What about medicine?" Tina asks, shocked at the sound of her own voice. Newt watches her steadily when the third commander tells them in weighty tones that they'll have to reserve and replicate whenever possible.
"We're doing all we can," he says tiredly. "We've written the Ministry and MACUSA, and they assure us that supplies are on their way. It's just the weather that's holding back the owls. They'll get through, have no fear."
Besides her, Newt shakes his shaggy head, murmuring something too low for her to hear before reaching for her hand.
She threads their fingers together while trying not to think about the deeper implications.
The nightmares start up again after the holidays.
Newt wakes her with soothing words and a hand in her hair, another on her hip. Tina finds she doesn't mind his casual intimacy. He calms her with practiced efficiency before pulling her close, and she falls asleep to the feel of his lips on the back of her neck, the sensation as cool and dry as moss.
Some mornings, she wakes before him to stare at the dirty canvas of their tent, feeling his even breathing against her neck.
Some mornings, she wakes before him to find that he's rolled away from her in his sleep, his steady warmth gone until she curls into his side.
Some mornings, she wakes before him to find that he's pulled her even closer in slumber, his hand tucked between the wasted pads of her breasts, a line of pulsating warmth pressing insistently against the curve of her bottom.
(She decides she likes those mornings best.)
Fanatics find them, and they fight.
They lose almost half their remaining ranks in that battle, but the people she cares about most — Newt, and Theseus, and Mr. Graves — come out mostly unscathed save for nightmares, so she considers herself blessed.
She wakes one morning in February to find that his hand has slipped in his sleep, and he's cradling her left breast.
Tina closes her eyes when he shifts, murmuring unintelligibly, before going still. His hand moves, his thumb inspiring shockwaves even through her layers as her nipple twinges to hardness. She bites down a sudden moan when he circles it thoughtfully before strumming it, and she feels the moment he goes from half-awake and hazy to full consciousness behind her, the line of his body suddenly tense.
Tina covers his hand with her own before she can think better of it, and rolls to face him. Newt watches her through slitted eyes as she touches his jaw, and neither of them can even pretend surprise when she cradles it before leaning in for a kiss — the brush of his lips light and hesitant but no less welcome.
He murmurs her name warmly and shows a small smile before reeling her in for more.
It becomes something of a routine: his hands on her when they're asleep, leading to a pleasant transition to wakefulness.
One particular morning, his mouth dusts the back of her neck with kisses as he touches her, palming each breast before looping his arms around her waist. Tina chews her lip in indecision before turning to face him, delighting in the way his hands move naturally to her hips, steadying her.
She kisses him urgently, reaching up to touch his hair, his cheek, his jaw before maneuvering upright. Newt makes a questioning sound when she gathers her layers before slinging a leg over him, depositing herself in his lap.
"Please don't ask me to stop," she whispers while kissing the column of his neck, delighting in his pleased sigh when he runs his fingers through her hair.
"I wouldn't dream of it," Newt mumbles, and patiently works a hand through her layers until he can touch her skin, making her shiver.
Tina flows like water over his body, touching and mapping until he is taut beneath her. She opens his shirt to explore the expanse of his chest and stomach before fingering the placket of his trousers. A questioning glance provokes a nod, and she bends to kiss him deeply as she opens his fly.
"Now, that isn't fair," Newt whispers when she wraps chilled, slightly shaky fingers around him. She smiles fleetingly as he sits up and spreads a hand over her stomach, hovering patiently. "Tina, may I—?"
She cuts him off with a kiss. "Yes," she says, and strokes him with one hand to marvel at his stuttering breath while clumsily wrestling her clothing with the other. He catches her wrist, his gaze heavy and dark as he peels away her layers, flaying her, exposing her to him until he can press dry lips to the hollow of her throat.
"You're so lovely," he murmurs reverently, rubbing her sides and back as goosebumps chase across her skin. Newt gently urges her to stop before sliding a hand past her hips and thighs, moving toward her center in loose spirals until his fingers brush her damp curls.
She braces herself on his chest when he touches her, watching his face as exploratory movements gradually settle into a rhythm. "Do you like that?" he asks, sounding genuinely nervous.
Tina laughs softly before stopping his hand.
"Yes," she promises and reaches for him while sliding lower, squaring herself on her haunches to line them up. "But I think I'd like this more."
He murmurs assent at her questioning look, and Tina closes her eyes to savor the feeling as she sinks onto him. She opens them to drink in his wonder when their bodies come together before laying over his chest to kiss him, rolling her hips carefully.
He touches all of her he can reach as they rock, sighs and breathy moans muffled in her skin as she moves faster, feeding the maddening itch building between them. "What do you need?" Newt gasps, and she leans back far enough to take in his pleading eyes before sealing them together with an answering kiss, swallowing his questioning hum.
Her orgasm is a profound relief against the backdrop of constant pain and misery. She surrenders to it fully, tossing her head back and closing her eyes as Newt kisses her, kisses her, kisses her, until she slumps against him, rocked to her foundation and sated.
A gentle hand on her hip, another in the small of her back, and she smiles blearily as he rolls them over. Newt finds her eyes when she tangles her legs with his and he begins to move, rolling his hips sharply as he gasps and presses his face into her neck. She runs her fingers through his shaggy hair until he shudders, breathing her name.
"Silphium," Tina reminds him in a pointed whisper, fervently thankful the MACUSA-issued tincture was one of the few that could be magically replicated without negative effect and squeezes him with her thighs. He nods in understanding before digging his fingertips into her skin, making her gasp when warmth flows between them until he trembles in her arms, his hips going jerkily still.
Newt pants for breath against her shoulder before lifting his head, smiling at her sweetly. He says her name and pushes her hair away from her face, his expression earnest. There's nothing she can think to say so she says nothing, smiling in kind when he cleans them up and replaces her layers before taking her in his arms.
There are no more words between them that night, and he kisses her in the morning before heading to the commander's tent.
Things move very quickly after that.
They get an earlier-than-expected break in winter and use that to travel to Leningrad. Once there, real fighting breaks out, the kind that requires rotations and reinforcements and an endurance they no longer possess.
They lose many good people, people Tina has come to respect and love and fear in equal turns. For all that, none hurts quite so badly as the loss of Director Graves, felled by green light as the caster titters nastily.
Adrenaline surges through Tina upon hearing that sound, burning away her exhaustion and fear. Turning with a snarl, she gives the enemy no quarter, casting with single-minded determination until, at her right, purple light streaks by and a cherished red-gold figure topples without warning.
She doesn't allow herself to think the worst when she flings herself at him, casting her strongest protective charms and taking his blood-streaked hand. Newt smiles up at her weakly while laying his other hand on her coat, his coat, soothing and anchoring her in equal measure.
"This won't kill me," he promises in a croak, and his eyes are very bright until he slumps in her arms, senseless.
Newt requires the intervention of a dedicated healer for two weeks. Even then, there are nights when Tina holds his hand and begs for him to stay with her.
He does, and his eyes are the first thing she sees when she wakes one morning, blue-green and gold and all for her.
"Tina," he murmurs warmly, and she clasps his hand against her cheek as she weeps.
England is simultaneously both more and less than Tina Goldstein ever expected.
Newt slides a hand into the small of her back, rubbing in tight circles. His smile and eyes are as quick and bright as ever, though he walks with the assistance of a cane now, his limp a permanent reminder of the battle that had gone so disastrously wrong.
"It's not much," he says apologetically, blinking at the small cottage with the flagstone path and run-to-riot garden. "But it's home." He turns to her, a little stiffly, to cup her cheek. "It could be yours too if you'd like to stay. I...I wouldn't mind continuing to wake beside you every morning. In fact, I'd welcome it — for the rest of our lives, if you'd have me."
Tina arches a sardonic eyebrow. "Is that a proposal, Mr. Scamander?"
He nods without hesitation, watching her carefully. "Yes, it is. Between my wartime pension and my inheritance, I'm more than set to take care of a family and leave them comfortable after I've gone. Now that I'm no longer required for the war effort, I can resume work on my book, perhaps even fetch my case from Mother's estates." He pushes her hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering on her skin. "Nothing would make me happier than to do all this with you by my side, Tina."
She leans into his embrace while sliding an arm around his waist, laying her head on his shoulder.
"Well, I guess we're both home then," she sighs and closes her eyes when the soft English breeze brings with it the scent of salt and flowers and carries away her relieved tears.
Come find me on Tumblr at katiehavok, if that's your thing.