December 8, 1926

Their Jacob is a stout figure standing blankly in the rain. He blends seamlessly into the background cacophony of New York at dawn, yet this obfuscation does not make their separation any easier—and Tina can no longer blame subway dust alone for the tears in her eyes. She hesitates a moment longer, allowing them all one final, lingering look, before clasping Newt and Queenie to Disapparate them all home.

They materialize in the sitting room. Queenie beats a hasty retreat to the bedroom and closes the door emphatically behind her. Tina flinches, but there's nothing she can do for her sister, so she turns her attention to someone she can help. Newt crosses the room on shaky legs to collapse onto the couch, hiding his ravaged face in his filthy hands. His shoulders shake with delayed reaction, and Tina bites her lip in indecision until an idea comes to her.

She sets the kettle to boil and fetches porcelain cups the No-Maj way, allowing Newt time to compose himself. He's watching her carefully when she returns, eyes suspiciously bright in his dirty face. She sets the tray down with an apologetic wince. "I'm all wet with domestic spells," she explains while worrying the edge of her jacket. "I'm not much better doing it without magic, but maybe this will help you feel better."

Newt chances a sip, grimaces, and sets the cup hastily aside. "Thank you," he rasps, and his eyes fall to his pitted hands, where he morosely picks his cuticles. He makes no move to clean himself up, lost in his own misery. Tina chews her lip indecisively before brushing his shoulder with a tentative hand. He goes eerily still at the contact, eyes riveted to the floor.

She keeps her voice pitched low when she speaks, using the same soothing tones she'd used on Credence beneath the city. "I know Gra—Grindelwald hurt you down there. I could hear it as I was running up the tunnel. Can I...would you let me help you clean up? I'm good at those spells, and I have some medical training."

Tina holds her breath as she watches him swallow, his throat working. Newt keeps his eyes fixed on the floor while he slowly shrugs out of his coat and passes it to Tina. It's heavier than she expects but she makes no comment while sending it to a corner to clean itself with a deft flick of her wand. He watches it hover while his trembling hands fumbled at his bow tie.

Tina doesn't allow herself time to think—she simply reaches out and takes over, sure fingers brushing his aside while plucking the knot loose, leaving it to hang around his neck. His eyes drift closed as he inhales carefully. Tina pretends not to notice his discomfort.

"Is that better?" She asks softly, and he nods. The tremble in his hands worsens when he unfastens his waistcoat and devolves into full-body quaking while he struggles out of it.

"—Sorry—," Newt manages through clenched teeth. Tina watches his knuckles turn white, and faint worry gives way to real concern.

"I've got you," she murmurs while working his rigid arms out of the garment. "Did Grindelwald use the Cruciatus curse?" She tries to keep her tone relatively light and unconcerned, but the worried quaver in her voice gives her away.

Newt shakes his head, jaw clenched. "No. Electricity," he manages to bite out, and Tina can hear his teeth grinding together. She frowns in thought but makes no further comment.

Peeling off his grimy waistcoat reveals that his white linen shirt is stuck to him with sweat, reduced to milky translucency over his chest and shoulders. She sucks in a sharp breath when she notes the dark splotches marring his skin. She weighs her options with her lip caught between her teeth, eventually deciding there's only one reasonable course of action, and steels herself for a suggestion she knows he isn't going to like.

"I need to take your shirt off, Newt," she tells him with all the confidence she can muster, and maybe she's misread the situation because he doesn't respond. He just rolls his eyes to glance at her before looking away, gaze deeply miserable. "I am sorry," she says meekly and tries very hard not to look or think or feel as she peels the filthy shirt off him. Tina barely smothers her shocked intake of breath at what's underneath and is blind to his increased trembling increasing as she stares.

His back and sides are riddled with the beginnings of intense bruises, in all shades of blue and purple. The discolorations are interspersed with livid red lines that resemble the roots of a tree, branching down his arms to his wrists, up his neck, and over his shoulders. Beneath those is a patchwork collection of scars: scratch marks and puncture wounds and burns and a smattering of star-shaped keloids that she thinks may be the remnants of gunshot wounds. All of this, layered atop a motley cacophony of freckles—his skin a tome of imperfections retelling the story of a life lived rough, stretched over compact and defined muscle.

Tina realizes she's gaping when Newt makes a pained sound, his eyes searching her face in confusion. She snaps her jaw shut while forcing her mind away from the wonder that is his body, fingers shaking badly when she drops his shirt to the floor.

"You're hurt," she begins and clears her throat roughly when her voice cracks. "I'm going to clean you up, and then I have some salve for the bruises. I don't think I have anything for the...burns. I'm sorry."

Newt remains entirely passive but watches Tina carefully as she uses her wand to summon a soft cloth, a basin of water, and a variety of unguents from the small medical supply cabinet. The items line themselves neatly on the small table before them, a perfect row of soldiers which she sets upon eagerly.

The root cause of his shaking can't be sourced but Tina suspects a calming draught may alleviate it somewhat, so she starts there. She pours the potion over his clenched teeth until he swallows it convulsively, eyes never leaving her face. The potion takes effect almost immediately, causing his gaze to turn distant and hazy while the tremors work themselves out. He's still incredibly tense, wound tightly enough to snap, but his skin no longer ripples with goosebumps so she counts that as a victory. Newt sighs deeply through a tight jaw, and his hooded eyes convey his thanks before he blinks them closed.

Tina is immeasurably relieved when his oceans of green-gold are hidden behind delicately purple lids. No longer feeling scrutinized, she moves with confidence as she wets the flannel and gently pats the damp cloth over the worst of the bruising. She can smell him from this close proximity, a sharp tang of spent adrenaline and masculine sweat, over an earthier scent she catalogs as simply Newt. She responds to these odors on a visceral level while carefully ignoring the ramifications of her reaction.

Newt exhales shakily when she unscrews the lid of bruise salve, a furrow denting the skin between his eyebrows when he opens his eyes to watch her dry him with a spell before scooping out a generous dollop. "This is going to be very cold," she croaks apologetically past a dry throat. He tersely hunches his shoulders while looking away when she moves closer. Tina takes a fortifying breath before rubbing the pungent paste into his skin, noting the way he holds his breath when her fingers brush against him. She catalogs the texture of his skin while she works, committing it to memory while plastering a clinical expression on her face, feeling anything but objective.

Tina can't help lingering on his skin for a moment or two past the saturation point of the ointment. His scars and freckles fascinate her, despite her efforts to remain impersonal. Fine tremors transmit through her fingers until she switches to healing his other shoulder. His breathing is ragged by the time she's finished, each exhale ending in a high-pitched wheeze. She can see that's he's watching her carefully from the corner of his eye. The angle of his head and the heaviness of his gaze reminds her of those terrible moments in the Death Chamber, where they'd both come so close to ending, and she shudders involuntarily.

Newt grimaces while cutting his eyes away. "Thank you," he croaks, and Tina firms the line of her mouth. She vanishes the filthy water before cleaning and refilling the basin.

"You can take a bath tomorrow. Well, later today, I guess," she murmurs as she scrubs the back of his neck. "I don't think you can manage it now. You're liable to drown." Her voice is intentionally light, almost unconcerned, and he snorts something halfway between a laugh and a sob. Something in Tina's chest squeezes painfully at the sound, and she valiantly swallows down the lump in her throat as she moves onto his hair. It crackles with holdover static, stubbornly resisting any attempt at cleaning it until she frustratedly casts a series of imperviousness charms and uses her wand to douse him.

He looks like a drowned kneazle as he glowers at her, all straggly hair and feline intensity with water trickling down his neck. Tina chokes back a semi-hysterical giggle and dries his back and shoulders before raising the cloth to his face. His hand flashes up to clamp manacle-hard fingers around her wrist without warning, causing Tina to freeze.

Newt dampens his lips, tongue a flash of pink in the low light while searching her face. He relaxes his grip in increments before dropping his eyes to her shoes. "My hands are still too shaky," he admits on an unsteady exhale. Tina gets the sense that this confession costs him a great deal. "Do watch my eyes, they've itched terribly since we returned."

Tina cleans his face with maternal tenderness, dabbing the grit out of his eyes while he sighs and finally, finally relaxes into the cushions. The rasp of his three days' stubble against her fingers sends a pleasant tingle down her spine. Newt swallows and swallows, eyes tracking her every movement while she dabs at the edge of his jaw and down the column of his throat. Then she's cleaning his chest and stomach, and he's once again breathing carefully.

She presses hard into his sides, hearing his small grunt of surprise but no hint of pain. "No broken ribs," she declares with palpable relief and chances a small smile. He narrows his eyes at her warily before focusing just to the left of her face. Tina stifles a disappointed sigh and resumes her task.

"Thank you," he husks when she declares him finished, and Tina ducks her head in silent acknowledgment. She dries him with a spell then knits her hands together while looking him over with a critical eye. He's clean enough, and the bruises have faded considerably. Still, the strange lines are a vivid, painful mantle over his back and arms, and he still trembles slightly with the after-effects of spellshock. Goosebumps chase over his skin while Tina engages in a fierce internal battle. Newt watches this without comment until her common sense wins out.

"I think you just need to sleep," she finally decides, instead of take off your pants and let me clean the rest of you. It would be a wildly inappropriate suggestion, but she knows he's going to have to sleep on the couch and she's not sure she'll ever be able to get the dust or his scent out—to say nothing of the memories.

Tina swallows down the strange, watery feeling in her chest and sends all her supplies back to the medicine chest. She squats to remove his boots and cast a gentle Scorgify on his lower half, along with a series of protective charms on the couch. She then takes his arm to help him recline, fine muscles stiff and unyielding beneath her fingers and covers him with her mother's knitted afghan.

Newt closes his eyes while relaxing into the cushions. Tina lingers uncertainly. She wants to pull him close and brush the hair away from his brow. She also wants to flee the room and hide in a corner to pick at the confused knot of her feelings. Frozen with indecision, she hovers until he opens his eyes and looks at her questioningly, his gaze disarmingly direct. She grimaces while stumbling back a few steps. "Um. You...sleep. I'll go, uh—Queenie. I'll go check on Queenie."

Calloused, trembling fingers tentatively reach out to touch her wrist. "Thank you," Newt says, sea-green eyes earnest where they meet hers. Tina blinks away sudden tears. They stare until the moment draws out into awkwardness, and Newt drops his hand to settle more comfortably on the couch. He sighs deeply and much of the tension leaves his frame when his eyes drift close.

Tina watches this reticent, careful man lower his guard, gaze lingering on his face as warmth suffuses her chest. Then she snaps herself out of the trance he'd induced and starts toward the bedroom—only to change course abruptly and cross the room in three strides.

She closes the apartment door behind her and trots down the hall to the communal bathroom, where she leans her forehead against the mirror and runs the hot water until the glass fogs over. Her eyes prickle, her hands shake, and she isn't sure if it's exhaustion, relief or something else entirely making her feel so raw.

Pull it together, Goldstein, Tina admonishes herself sternly, but she can't shake off the feeling of storied skin beneath her fingers. She can't forget the gleam in his eyes as she stripped him of his layers, or the elegance of his fine build, or the way his hair had felt between her fingers. Even the scent of him, something she knows intellectually should have been unpleasant, had worked its way into and through her, curling around forgotten places to light sparks in the darkness. Enough!

Tina summons her toiletries and a clean set of pajamas and sets about brushing her teeth while determinedly not thinking about the man sprawled on her couch. She strips and takes a bath, water temperature just this side of too hot in an attempt to scorch away thoughts of him. It doesn't work; if anything, the heat intensifies her imaginings, her feelings, until she's breathless with frustration.

She very determinedly ignores her hardened nipples as she scrubs until her skin is pink and raw, yet cannot ignore the trickle of heat that flares to life when she washes the juncture of her thighs. Tina groans while knocking her head against the side of the tub. "No," she reminds her libido before grimly drying and dressing.

Newt is deeply asleep when she tiptoes back into the apartment. His head is canted at an uncomfortable-looking angle and the blanket has slipped, revealing his wholly masculine chest. Tina bites her lip with indecision before creeping closer to tuck the Afghan more snugly around his shoulders. He shifts and murmurs, eyes tightening in response to a dream, before settling back down with a sigh. The sound sets her nerve ending alight, all prior admonishments forgotten. Heart pounding, Tina takes one last long look at him before creeping away, feeling simultaneous guilty and almost unbearably aroused.

This is not good, she thinks and flees into her bedroom.

Thoughts of Newt quickly fly away, however, when she finds her sister collapsed onto her bed, deeply asleep. Queenie's still in her good about-town dress, shoes kicked carelessly to the floor with a crumpled hankie clutched in one hand.

Tina's heart wilts at the sight. She tugs a blanket over her, causing Queenie to whimper in her sleep. Saddened and defeated, Tina crawls into her sister's bed to tug her closer. Tina lays a kiss onto her forehead when Queenie sighs and presses into her side. She's deeply asleep again moments later.

Tina frets until exhaustion takes her—bitterly questioning the wisdom of the law, wondering at Newt's actions, the way he looked at her and what it all means, but above all fearful of what the future may hold.


Tina achieves a soupy vestige of consciousness sometime past noon that same day if the position of the sun is to be believed. She wakes alone, neatly nestled in her sister's bed, and frowns until the memory of the previous night and very early morning floods back in.

Queenie, she thinks, and on the heels of that: Newt!

She springs from the bed and stumbles across the room, scrambling to fling open the pocket doors. She isn't sure what she expects to find—Queenie wringing her hands in agony, perhaps, or maybe Newt sprawled over the couch and begging for her. It isn't her sister blandly stirring something that smells like eggs in a skillet, or Newt bending over carefully to retrieve something from his case.

Tina gapes, momentarily flummoxed.

"Good morning, Teenie," her sister says softly. Newt cranes his head to look over his shoulder. His hair is damp and he's mostly dressed, freshly-pressed waistcoat and bow tie hanging loose. He's scrubbed pink and clean, and the only thing that gives away his troubles of earlier is the purple crescents of sheer exhaustion beneath his eyes. He's also clean-shaven, the line of his jaw smooth and burnished in the light from the window, and that intriguing notion causes her to gulp.

Newt stands, carriage still a bit stiff and smiling awkwardly. "Tina. Good morning." His eyes meet hers for only a second before skittering away, and she experiences a pang. Before it can take hold, however, Newt slowly pulls out a chair and indicates for her to sit. She notices a citrusy, woodsy scent clinging to him, and it takes her a moment to realize that it's his aftershave. Her knees knock together and unhinge while she collapses gracelessly into her seat.

"The younger Miss Goldstein's cooking breakfast, though I suppose it's actually lunch," Newt murmurs, genially ignoring her struggle with gravity while taking his own seat. "She insists that I need to eat, and I suspect she's right. You are also in need of sustenance, and I need help with my creatures—I'm still quite sore, you see. After we've fed ourselves and if you are amenable, would you be willing to join me down in my case?"

Newt speaks mostly to his placemat, but Tina can see the worried furrow between his brow, the way his restless fingertips map the grain of the table. He wants my company, she realizes slowly, and simple joy suffuses her. "Of course, Newt," she replies happily, and gives him her most winsome smile. It simultaneously dazzles him and makes him forget himself, just as she'd intended. He holds her gaze with no sign of hesitation, eyes wide and hopeful with newfound understanding. Then awkwardness sets in and they both look away to mumble trivialities.

"Oh, you two," Queenie huffs, and if it's a pale, gray imitation of her usual vivacity, no one comments on it. Instead, they tuck into their late breakfast with relish, heartened by the December sun and the warmth of familiarity.