Author's note: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH ahead, guys. Don't say I didn't warn you! I guess this story technically counts as an AU since we know this isn't going to happen...
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.
There is a low light smoldering on the horizon. It isn't anything as poetic as a sunset.
Tina finds the allied camp entirely wanting, but cannot find the energy to be disappointed. She had hoped a change of environment would produce a break from the unrelenting mud that a German April seems to bring, but there is mud in her boots and mud in her hair and she is quite certain she has mud in her mouth, as well.
Tina checks her crude map and squinted into the lowering dark, ears pricked for a familiar voice. A whistle sounded next to her, and she turned her head to find a tent blazing in the dark. Inside, a familiar steel-gray head bent together with a younger, darker one, and Tina knows she had found the place.
Percival Graves nods a curt greeting when she entered, while the darker figure stood to welcome her. He sports a bronze complexion, a smattering of freckles across his nose, and dark hair that gleams mellowly with oil. Tina starts and does a double-take, staring dumbly before remembering the name she's been given for him. He looks like his brother, she thinks and smothers a pang of longing.
Theseus Scamander clasps her hand in greeting, his grip dry and hard. There's no recognition in his gaze when she gives her name, so she turns her attention to the task at hand and focuses on her duty. It is easy enough to push the feelings down, now that she's had years of experience doing it.
She makes her contributions and helps to outline what she's learned of enemy movements, and is pleasantly surprised when many of her suggestions are given the full weight of consideration. She knows Graves trusts her in this; she just hasn't counted on her thoughts contributing to their plans. It's nice to be recognized, and she isn't too jaded to appreciate it.
It isn't until later when she sits unenthusiastically eating a tasteless ration, that a steel plate lands beside her and a dark shape slumps behind it.
"Goldstein," he nods in greeting, before shoveling an indefinable gray something into his mouth and grimacing. Tina isn't sure if he's sought her out to observe or to interact, so she returns to her meal while keeping a careful eye on him.
"So—you and my brother," Theseus finally says, and Tina is unable to contain the ingrained roll of her eyes. She deliberately sets her food aside, brushing off her hands before turning to face him fully. She knows she needs to tread carefully here.
"Yes," she says coolly. She recognizes that it's a bad idea to appear to challenge a man who outranks her but can't seem to restrain herself. This is an old, secret hurt, one she has long since thought resolved, and she isn't keen to revisit it. Not now, on the eve of battle. "Your brother and I were, at one point, somewhat involved," she lies. "However, I haven't seen him in almost three years, and I haven't heard from him in well over a year. I don't even know if he's still alive."
Theseus lifts his hands in a placating gesture, and the mannerism is so reminiscent of Newt that Tina stops and deflates. He chances a small smile, and that too is achingly familiar. "He's still alive," he tells her, and Tina has to ruthlessly school her expression. Hope blossoms in her chest, hot and visceral, but is quickly extinguished by doubt. iWhy hasn't he written?/i
Theseus seems to read the question in her mind because his smile vanishes. "He was deep behind enemy lines for a long time, Goldstein. It was all sprung on him quite suddenly. I'm afraid it's rather my fault—I suggested him for the task, and he accepted readily when we asked him. He's only recently returned and has received a promotion for his troubles. I expect he should be writing you soon if he hasn't already."
He checks his watch before looking around carefully. His voice drops into a conspiratorial tone for this next bit, and Tina has to lean closer to hear him. She is dismayed to find that he smells much like Newt—sweat, sunshine, and bitter herbs—and is further aghast when she subconsciously leans into the scent. "Meet me in the Air Commodore's tent in one hour," he murmurs while he gathers his things. "I may have a surprise for you, as well as a place for you to...enjoy it."
Theseus sweeps away and Tina watches him go, thoughts whirling.
An hour later finds Tina outside the Air Commodore's tent. There are voices from within, one deep and masculine, the other softer. Less assuming. Tina knows that voice.
She sweeps the tent flap aside, and Theseus looks up at her. Besides him, facing away from Tina stands a tall man wearing the deep blue uniform worn by members of the Dragon Squadron. There's a braided band denoting rank on his shoulder, and the short cape of an actual rider falls to mid-back. He keeps talking for a moment or two long until he realizes that Theseus' attentions are no longer on him. Then he makes a disgruntled noise and turns, and Tina feels acutely the chasm of time and secrets between them.
It is her Newt, but in some indefinable way, it isn't. The skin on his face is deeply tanned, and his eyes have faded to a shade of pale blue. These aren't her lover's eyes—these are hard and cold chips of ice, wholly attuned to their surroundings, and they snap over her in recrimination before focusing on her face and widening. Tina has seen the same war-torn expression in her own reflection, and she can't hold it against him—but it further emphasizes the years and the miles that have passed, and she can't help but quail a little under that knowledge.
His body is thinner and wirier, but that doesn't matter when he waits for a beat, two, seeming to switch mental gears—and then crosses the room in three long strides to embrace her.
"Tina," he breathes, and his arms are just as strong and warm around her as she remembers. He's frowning when he pulls away, and it only deepens as he examines her face. "You've lost weight you could ill afford to lose, Tina," and the tone is so scandalized and so much like the man she loves that she almost laughs. Almost. Instead, she gives him a pale imitation of a smile, the best she can muster with her heart attempting to pound out of her chest. Her poor attempt seems to placate him because his face softens as he cups her cheek with his hand.
"I've missed you," he says while leaning his forehead against her. He closes his eyes and they breathe together, just as they used to do. Then he steps back and turns to his brother, assuming perfect parade-rest posture. "If there's nothing else…?" he asks, and Theseus passes him a heavy brass key. Newt takes it, looking confused.
"The cabin," Theseus says simply, and Tina watches as the tip of Newt's ears turns pink. "Neither of you are needed until noon tomorrow. Be here for 0900. I'll cover your absence with your ranking officers. Take some provisions and go." He waves a laconic hand before bending over his paperwork.
Newt's hand curls around her arm as he risks a small smile. She smiles back tentatively as he Disapparates them away.
The cabin turns out to be an actual cabin, with a tiny attached bathroom and a single large room that serves as combined kitchen, sitting room, and bedroom.
Bemused, Tina takes a moment to look around while Newt pops in and out, bearing rations and bedding from the Commanders tents. One bed, she notes and doesn't attempt to tamp the fissure of excitement that runs through her. She groans happily when she spots the full-size claw-foot bathtub and directs a scouring charm at it before filling it with steaming water.
"Do what you want," she tells Newt as she begins to shrug out of her uniform. "I'm taking a bath. I'm tired of the cold and the mud."
He nods while loosening his cape, shrugging out of his jacket and lowering his braces before sending the pile of her clothes to a corner, where they start to wash, press and mend themselves. His own garments are sent to an opposite corner before he trails after her.
Tina sighs appreciatively as she lowers herself into the water, skin flushing pink with the heat. He trips into the room, armed with a towel and a rough bar of soap, and the entire scene is so reminiscent of their time together before the war, before separation and unanswered letters and longing, that Tina smiles properly for the first time in weeks. He drops his eyes, suddenly bashful, and speaks to the floor.
"You forgot these," he says, and he places the towel on a ledge before approaching her. "Can't get very clean without soap," and Tina snorts in rueful acknowledgment. He hands her the bar, and Tina doesn't fail to miss the way his hard new eyes linger on her body, taking her in. Newt raises his head after a while, finding her gaze and holding it. There's a question and a plea there, and something within her softens.
Tina touches his wrist while passing him the soap. "Wash my back?" she asks softly as she leans forward. He does, and there is nothing clinical in the brush of his hand over her skin. He shows the same care when she dunks her head and allows him to wash her short hair. When she turns her head and catches him in a surprise kiss, he does a thorough job of that, too, leaving her breathless and dizzy.
Newt helps her out of the tub and dries her off, paying special attention to her hidden crevices. She transfigures her towel into a nightgown while Newt takes his own quick bath—frowning when the envisioned sturdy shift turns into a diaphanous white something instead—and pulls it over her head while he dries himself.
"I like that," he says simply once it's on, and she knows he means it.
The nightgown highlights and obscures in equal measure, and his eyes soften as he takes her in. "I like that very much," he repeats, and he sounds like himself so Tina takes his hand and pulls him to bed.
