Tina's new orders arrive with the interoffice mail at noon.
She's slumped over her cramped desk, unenthusiastically noshing a corned beef sandwich with spicy mustard, and gives her post a cursory glance before swallowing hard. The lump of food gets lodged in her suddenly too-dry throat, forcing her to hastily gulp water while slowly, slowly flipping back through the stack, heart pounding nervously, to find the thick envelope with its distinctive border and black, no-nonsense lettering.
The elaborate wax seal seems to taunts her.
She holds it between numb fingers, afraid of breaching the sanctity of the parchment but equally afraid of ignoring it, breathing deeply until her heart rate calms. Her hands tremble when she slides in her letter opener, and she holds her breath as she reads the missive.
Helpless tears blur her vision when a name she knows, and the weight of its implications, leaps out at her, only to blink them away before committing the salient points to memory.
The previous task of the day forgotten, Tina strides through the shadowed halls of MACUSA to Director Graves' office, where he admits her to discuss the mission while destroying the letter. She meets someone else there, someone wearing a face she recognizes (cherishes) with an unpleasant jolt, until her boss reassures her that they are not the same person. Only then do they lay plans and discuss details, Tina agreeing to their inquiries without thought or regard for her safety, determined to fulfill her mission.
A Vow is made at her request, and the three lock themselves into collusion as Tina ignores both the sudden pain in her head and the taste of inevitable betrayal coating her tongue.
Afterward, Director Graves takes one look at her strained, too-pale face before giving her the rest of the day off. She mumbles her thanks and takes her leave, and it isn't until she makes her preferred Disapparition alley that she allows the tears to fall.
Queenie greets her at the door with a mug of hot cocoa and a weak smile.
Her sister is appropriately empathetic over a supper that tastes like ashes and doesn't press when Tina speaks in monosyllables due to the sheer effort of keeping her Occlumency shields intact.
Toward the end of the evening, after dishes are washed and clothes set up for the morrow, following a shared glass of wine and weak attempts at conversation, Queenie brings Tina her stationery and places it pointedly before her.
"You have the time, Teenie," she says, voice soft but steely with determination. Her blue eyes implore her with their goodness, and Tina scrubs tiredly at her eyes while trying to come up with a rebuttal. She can't think of one, and honestly...it is a good idea.
She has no intention of going off to war, and quite possibly her death, without seeing his face one last time.
"That's right," Queenie sighs, blinking back tears. "I know I said I wouldn't pry or meddle and I haven't, but I think I need to make an exception here. It would kill him if you left without saying goodbye and never came back. He's sweet on you, Teenie. You know he is, and I know you're just as sweet on him." She pauses to nibble her lacquered lip before plunging on. "You won't know unless you ask, and I know you'll both be hurtin' if you don't."
"You're right," Tina nods and shakily pushes her hair back. "You're right," she repeats, a little stronger this time. Queenie allows a small, sad smile before exiting the room.
Tina watches after her until the door clicks closed and the silence has spun out intolerably. Then she opens her stationary and withdraws a perfumed sheet along with her pen and a pot of sensible blue ink.
She squares her implements before her and closes her eyes, breathing deep to center herself and calm her racing thoughts. When the shaking has left her hand and she feels in control, Tina sets ink to paper, trying her hardest not to think about a future that may no longer be available to her.
Dear Newt,
I hope this letter finds you well. I know it's only been a few days since my last writing, but I've received word of something that potentially affects you, and it is my hope that you will hear me out before making a decision...
Three days later sees Tina bundled into the MACUSA International Floo Hub, a compact suitcase in her hand as she awaits her turn at the hearth.
Her departure from Queenie had been easier than expected—Tina's confident she'll be back, and her sister does her best to keep them both lifted by her surety. Only the tears in their eyes, the tremble in their hands when they hugged, the embrace tight tight tight, betrayed their carefully hidden doubts.
Yet the Goldstein sisters are strong, and their love is strong, and neither is willing to let war come between them. So they part as if Tina is simply stepping out to market instead of traveling across the ocean for a love that is not guaranteed, before shipping off to a battle they have no stake in.
It is easier to pretend that this is temporary. Safer, too.
The wizard manning the terminal turns to the crowd. "Goldstein!" he barks, and she hurries forward to receive her instruction. He speaks in a bored tone and doesn't look at her when he passes the crock of powder her way. "Toss this in, and make sure you speak very clearly; otherwise you're going to get lost. You can step into the grate now, wait until my signal to announce your destination and enter the network. Is that clear?"
Tina nods, mouth dry as flannel. She steps into the cast-iron grate with a wince, and the transportation specialist checks his watch before nodding once, sharply. "Okay, Goldstein, it's your turn."
She clears her throat and infuses as much brash New York Auror into her voice she can muster. She's proud when it only cracks twice. "Ministry of Magic, London, United Kingdom," Tina manages while opening her hand, and the fire flares green just before reality jerks away.
Tina closes her eyes and holds her breath at the height of the maelstrom, feeling pulled in every direction for an indeterminate amount of time until, with a dry cough and a thud, she's ejected unceremoniously six time zones and 3,400 miles away from home.
She stumbles out of the MACUSA-landings grate, sneezing wretchedly and covered in soot, straight into a pair of masculine arms. They wrap around her waist to steady her against the transient dizziness, and it isn't until she can blink the grit out of her eyes that she realizes she knows those arms. The blue coat they're cased in is welcome and familiar, as are the green-gold eyes that blink into her own.
"Hello, Tina," Newt Scamander mumbles with a nervous smile, and Tina sags against him in profound relief.
"I'm sorry," she says later, after they've quit the dark, somehow claustrophobic Ministry for the dark, narrow streets of London.
Newt looks at her questioningly from the corner of his eye, and she expertly dodges a stalled pedestrian before going on. "I mean, I'm sorry for showing up with so little warning. I just...I felt like I had to be here right now. Does that make sense?"
"Yes," he answers absently, before gently squeezing her elbow and inclining his head toward an alley. She follows, skin tingling with the sense-memory of his touch. Newt glances around quickly before meeting her eyes. "I'll have to take you Side-Along since you don't know the way yet," he explains in a murmur, and his eyes darken as he looks at her. "Is that...are you alright with that?"
Tina nods and swallows nervously, wondering if he can hear the frantic pounding of her heart the way she can. "That's fine," she rasps.
He hesitates a moment before stepping closer, gingerly putting his arm around her. Her mind grinds to a halt at the contact, and she isn't precisely thinking when she puts her arm firmly around his shoulders, pressing close enough to feel his respiration. She pretends not to notice the way he stiffens at the contact, before his eyes find hers and his lips part with a flash of tongue.
"Hang on, then," he whispers, and she squeezes him tight as they turn into the void.
Tina hadn't given much thought to Newt's living arrangements until recently, and even then she'd imagined him living out of his suitcase—shacked in the corner of a friend's house perhaps, or even still residing with a little widow of a mother.
So it's a surprise when he brings her to the sitting room of a small but surprisingly tidy cottage, very different from her own apartment in New York. His house is clean and neat, a stark contrast to the shambles that is his suitcase shack, furnished in a light but masculine style that suits him surprisingly well.
It also bears the unmistakable signs of unrepentant bachelorhood, which makes her smile slightly.
"It's nice," she decides as she turns on her heel, taking in the hammered tin ceiling and wainscoting, the surprisingly delicate wallpaper and the heavy velvet curtains. "Not what I would have expected," and she's teasing him a little when he shucks off his coat and gestures to take hers. She hands it over wordlessly, where he hangs them side-by-side before turning to a small mirror set beside the door.
He smooths his unruly hair and loosens his bow tie, hesitating only a moment before shedding his suit jacket and slinging his hands in his pockets.
"Yes, well," Newt says softly as he approaches her, "my grandmother bequeathed it to me when she was no longer for this world. Truth be told, I spend little time up here except to cook and eat, and occasionally to sleep if I know an owl could come at any moment. Most of the time I'm in my case." He looks at the object in question, propped innocently against a wall, and Tina manages a faint smile before a more prosaic concern reveals itself.
"Speaking of," she begins, "we didn't work out all the details because we didn't have time, but—where am I staying? I have money but not a lot, so if you could just direct me to the closest and cheapest hotel, that would be fine." Newt's face falls in increments as she talks, and she hurries on. "I'm sorry to throw all this on you, I just..." She stumbles to a halt when his eyes search her face before falling to his boots.
"I thought you'd stay here," he says in a very low voice. Tina holds her breath against a dizzying burst of hope when he goes on. "I thought...well, since you and Miss Goldstein allow me to stay at your flat whenever I'm in the city, I thought I'd at last return the favor." His hand bunches into a fist through his trousers, and she looks at it for longer than is probably appropriate. "I can see that I was mistaken. Please forgive me my assumptions, Tina."
Tina starts when her heart begins to pound, and lifts a placating hand. "It's fine!" She hastens to reassure. "I—I didn't want to impose, but Newt, really, I'm more than happy to stay here. With you. It's fine." She drops her hand while stuttering to a halt, and chances a glance at his face. "I was hoping for it, actually," she finds the courage to admit, and his hands smooth out as the tense line of his shoulders relax.
"That's settled, then." Newt sends a tiny smile her way.
"Yes," Tina agrees, and gently smiles back.
It was late when she left New York, so it's late enough in England to be considered early. Still, that doesn't stop Tina from staring out his window, taking in what she can see of the dark countryside, frowning at the obscuring drizzle while listening to the domestic sounds of him working at his quaint relic of a stove.
Something brushes her elbow and she turns, only to have a surprisingly delicate teacup thrust into her hands.
"Here," he murmurs without meeting her eyes. "Something to help ward off the chill."
A chill in August is a novelty, so she hums her thanks and takes a tentative sip, closing her eyes when the flavor of lemon and licorice coat her tongue. "Just like you used to make in New York," she recalls, and he makes a noncommittal sound as he stands next to her.
He sips his own tea as they stare companionably out the window. Tina tries to keep her interest in the topography but there's very little to actually see, and her attention invariably wanders. And as is so often the case, her eyes find his reflection as her mind wanders to him.
He looks much the same as he did when they first met two winters ago. He's a little more tired, perhaps, the careworn lines in his face slightly more prominent. His summer tan is still deep but fading, melding with his freckles to give him a slightly more mature air. The desert sun from his last trip has brought out the blond in his hair, a striking contrast to his bronzed skin. Most striking of all is his eyes, currently a deep shade of amber in the flickering lamplight.
Newt catches her staring at him through the glass, and angles his head to meet the gaze of her reflection. Tina holds her breath, and he blinks at her while moistening his lips. The flash of tongue captures her eye, and she stares at his mouth, falling into an oft-ignored pattern of daydreams as he sets his jaw and does not look away.
She snaps herself abruptly out of it when her hand relaxes and now-tepid liquid splashes her fingers. Only her well-honed Auror reflexes prevent his fine china from tumbling to the floor.
"I'm so sorry," she gasps, horrified.
Newt shakes his head with a forced smile as he pulls out his handkerchief. He's all sinuous, feline grace when he sets aside her teacup before capturing her hand to fussily clean her knuckles. He lingers over the task until all traces of moisture are gone, before releasing her and stepping back.
"No harm done," he whispers, and Tina thinks they're no longer talking about spilled tea. He stares down at their feet for a long moment before hesitantly meeting her eyes, his expression unreadable. "Tina," he begins, and hastens to swallow when his voice cracks. "Tina," he tries again, "I know you said that you had to come but...why are you here?" It's a blunt question given an unintentionally blunt delivery, and he grimaces while dropping his eyes.
Tina shyly reaches out to brush her fingers over his. He gulps but meets her halfway, and she's smiling slightly when he finally looks up. Newt relaxes as she alternates her gaze between his face and his hand, trying to find a way to articulate the blind imperative that had driven her across the ocean and into his home.
The words evade her, and she's left staring until he swallows and his face closes off, expression turning distant and guarded.
His retreat is the last thing she wants, so she recalls every heated glance they'd shared, every small, inadvertent touch. She brings to mind the longing way he'd looked at her when he thought she wouldn't notice, and the way she'd thought of him, late at night and in the privacy of her own bedroom. Most of all, she thinks of the aborted half-gesture he'd made when last they'd parted, there on the dock, when he'd leaned forward as if—almost like he'd intended—
"You," she blurts, and the room seems to go very still. "I'm...Newt, I came for you."