She clings grimly to the rail of the ship as she braces against the toss of the sea, and scans the rapid approach pier. There!
He stands apart from the gathered throng, a spot of blue and red and bronze against gray—a colorful bird on foreign shores. He's wearing his favorite blue coat, and his old school scarf is wound around his neck. He stands at precise parade-rest posture, and for a change, he is perfectly still.
The crowd murmurs and flows around him, but he is solid and steady and dependable, weather-beaten but immutable. My Newt, she thinks and wipes her eyes.
(The tears have been a constant companion, these past days. She can't consider that an improvement over her typical stoicism.)
The ship groans into its moorings, and the planks are lowered. Tina considers herself blessed: this is a war vessel, and everyone on board is returning from the war efforts. They aren't hampered by customs.
She hangs back as her fellow Aurors and the injured move or is transferred away, allowing the main crush of the crowd to dissipate. He watches and waits until the dock is mostly clear before coming closer, stopping ten feet from the main gangplank. He waits for her, head canted to the side to observe her descent.
She swallows against nausea, her other constant companion of late, as she approaches him. There's a pang of remorse, there and gone again—she has watched the others greeting loved ones, the exclamations of joy, the warm embraces, and kisses. She and Newt are not like that. Their love is deep and strong and wholly there but they are both undemonstrative by nature, preferring to save their embraces and tender words for private moments.
(He returns the first time armed with his book and an awkward smile. She meets him in this very same spot and spends the week showing him around her city. When he leaves, he presses his face to hers and just breathes against her. She spends nearly a week after his departure alternating between cheek-infusing chagrin at his display, and a species of joy she isn't ready to name.)
She is bare inches from him when her body betrays her. Her stomach leaped into her throat as the ground swoops beneath her feet, sending her head spinning. Newt springs forward to catch her, winding an arm around her waist and pulling her close.
"It's all right," he murmurs, steadying her with shaking hands. "You just need to get your land-legs back. There, that's a girl, now, Tina."
Tina knows it isn't as simple as that, but she nods for his sake and fights down her gorge. When she is finally steady enough to lift her face and meet his concerned gaze, her eyes prickle all over again. He's looking at her with the same tenderness she remembers from when first they'd parted: as if he's committing her features to memory.
"Why are you here?" He winces at his typical lack of tact, and she manages a watery ghost of a smile. The question is so fundamentally Newt that she can forget, for a moment, the weight of knowledge that's sent her back to his arms, no longer suitable for war.
"You've only just left seven weeks ago, and your letter said you weren't hurt..."
His voice is a hoarse whisper, trembling with suppressed emotions as he observes her face. He trails off to allow her to interject or explain, and Tina is left floundering. She's carried this secret through two weeks of battle on the frontlines, and across 15 nauseous days at sea. But here, now, with his luminous eyes upon her, she can't find the words.
(He comes and goes, and months turn to years. Inevitably, the time comes when she has to tell him that she's the one who plans to leave. They spend the week circling each other, both willing to engage in a different sort of battle but neither willing to shatter their fragile peace.
On their final night together as she listens to his breathing from the other bed, neither of them sleeping, she makes her move.
"If you love me, then love me," she breathes into his skin as she joins him, and he does.)
Instead, she reaches out and touches his forehead, dragging a finger over the line of his nose, his lips, and stopping at his chin. She cups his jaw and guides him in for a kiss—tender as those before but shattering in its intensity. As his mouth moves against hers, she guides his hands to frame her naval while stroking his scarred knuckles.
She feels him jerk against her in realization and opens her eyes. He breaks their kiss to drag in a breath, and she can feel the puff of his gasps before he presses against her cheek.
"Is it true, then?" he asks, and his voice is wet.
Tina nods, unable to speak past the emotions choking her.
He releases a sigh that seems to take all his tension with it and folds her into a proper embrace.
"My Tina," he murmurs, and now she knows he's crying, but that's okay because she's crying too.
"My Newt," is her response, and for the first time in a very long while, she smiles.
Author's note: You can find me on Tumblr (username: katiehavok) if that's your thing. I would recommend seeking me out there—it's the best place to find me if you wish to keep track of my works, and I always accept prompts and requests for Newt/Tina and Newt/Queenie. Thanks, as always, to Kemara for beta-reading and general encouragements.