This story was originally published on Ao3 on April 14th, 2018, and is being included here for the sake of thoroughness.

Warnings: unplanned pregnancy, contemplations of abortion (left open-ended) and major canon divergence!

The bottles taunt her from their place on the table, lined up with perfect military precision — one a bright and hopeful purple, the other a dull and muddy brown.

(An ugly color for an ugly decision, but there's nothing to be done for it.)

Queenie sighs before pushing a sheaf of limp hair behind her ear. It's longer now than she's ever worn it, habitually pulled back in a low ponytail. Gone are the days of airy dresses and hopeful smiles; now is the time of thoughtless hairstyles and her sister's old slacks, of resistance and rebellion and fighting for an idea what wasn't always her own.

Not until—

She shoves herself away from the table, pacing in place as her greatest asset and biggest failing (her mind, her uniquely restless mind) gets away from her.

Falling into bed with Newt hadn't been part of the plan. Falling in with him, yes; working with him, always; but sleeping with him? Sharing intimacy? Discovering that the brush of his calloused hand was the one thing left in this world that could calm the static between her ears?

Never. It was never supposed to be this way, and even now she's not sure who's memory they're insulting most: Jacob's or Tina's.

Or maybe neither of them, Queenie muses while executing a precise turn on her heel. Maybe Jacob and Teenie wouldn't care because I think...I think they'd understand.

Still. There is a new darkness behind Newt's eyes that matches the darkness in her own. The only time the haunted look leaves him is when they come together, pressed skin-to-skin with no light to hide their activities, muffling ardent cries beneath the cacophony of war.

Queenie catches a glimpse of her strained face in the mirror and frowns. Newt had made a similar expression last night after he'd disrobed her but before leaning in for an opening kiss. He had traced the new fullness in her breasts, the way the skin of her belly was no longer quite so taut, and exhaled brokenly before fleeing, the flicker of his hair bright even against the deepening gloom.

(A simple spell had confirmed what she already knew; what he suspected. Her black market contacts had taken care of the rest.)

Now she was left facing a difficult choice.

Two potions.

One a new beginning…

The other an irrevocable ending.

The scuff of a familiar sprung boot against the floor distracts Queenie from her reverie. She looks up to find Newt hovering in the doorway, shoulders hunched as if bracing for a blow.

"How long have you known?" War has shaven much of the burr off his accent, replacing cultured London tones with a soldiers' defiant grit.

Queenie manages a brittle smile with the reminder of how very much they've changed.

"A few weeks. I suspected but…"

He makes a rough sound before stepping into the room. His eyes fall to the cut glass beakers and his jaw tightens when he nods. "Right. What do you need from me, then?"

There it is, plain and open and hanging expectantly in the air.

For a single moment, Queenie knows true hatred — for the war that had stolen his wife and her husband away from them, for the carelessness that had brought them to this juncture, and for Newt — before the emotion collapses onto itself and familiar exhaustion rushes in to take its place.

"Your support," she whispers brokenly, "no matter what decision I make."

Newt closes the gap between them. He lifts the vials to examine them against the weak light streaming through the window before pressing out a long sigh. "I've made arrangements for a safe place when the time comes, should you decide to go through with it," he says in a low voice. "But the choice is yours, just as it always has been."

Queenie puts her head in her hands. "I don't know what to do," she admits, at last allowing some of the lingering guilt and sheer, blinding terror to color her tone. "I wasn't expecting this." She curls her fingers into her hair and tugs, using the brittle pain to ground her until calloused fingers encircle her wrists.

"Come on, now," Newt murmurs soothingly, and a flash of something skirts the edges of his mental shields, bursting in her mind like fireworks.

(I'm lost without you because I'm lost inside you, please don't leave me here alone—)

He takes her into his arms, shielding her from the worst of her distress until reality reasserts itself in the form of thunder that isn't thunder, causing them both to start.

"Wait until morning to think about it," Newt urges, brushing his scarred lips across her forehead. "Please."

Queenie looks up to find his eyes swirling with emotion, none of them condemnation. She can't escape the sense of finality in his gaze, however, and she's visited with the strong intuition that tonight will be the last: whatever happens from this day forward will be unchartered territory for them both, terrifying and new.

The realization entices and repels in equal measure.

"Okay," she agrees and puts the potions and the weight of their awful knowledge firmly behind her while taking his hand.

Come find me on Tumblr at katiehavok, if that's your thing.