Where were the Aurors? Why were they not there yet?

"Help!" Newt cried, but even if someone had heard him, he didn't hear their answer, ringing as his ears still were due to the deafening sound of the gunshot – he likely wouldn't have now heard it had the entire Department of Magical Law Enforcement been jumping up and down right above him. "Help!"

Newt covered the bleeding hole in Percival's chest with his hands. They only had moments left – seconds, minutes, who knew – and Percival would be long gone before Newt would manage to drag him upstairs and outside away from the furbel drool to perform any a healing spell, assuming all the dragging itself wouldn't be enough to exhaust Percival's abused body and to kill him, that was.

Newt glanced longingly over his shoulder at his wand sticking out of Mathias' pocket. Mathias laid there unconscious on his belly, but the wand could easily be seen in the back pocket of his trousers – it was fortunate it hadn't been broken when the man had fallen. Percival was beyond non-magic help and for a moment, for one terrible selfish moment, Newt considered taking his wand and apparating the two of them far away from there. He considered apparating despite of the explosion the act would cause, despite of the chaos he would leave behind by taking them somewhere where he could make Percival whole again, somewhere where Percival could be healed with but a few spells.

Newt got as far as crawling to Mathias' side, taking his wand from the man's pocket, returning back to Percival and taking him by the hand to apparate them away – only to find himself unable to perform any magic. He knelt there, frozen, as he looked down at the man he loved, the man Death was about to take away from him for forever – but he still found he couldn't disapparate them, he couldn't perform any magic with the knowledge that it would destroy countless of innocent lives.

Percival could have healed himself, Newt knew, but had chosen not to. He had chosen to not use magic so the furbel drool wouldn't react to his spells, so it wouldn't cause any an explosion and put people at risk. He had made his choice, he had chosen death rather than harming others in his expense. How could Newt now deny him his choice, possibly his last choice? Newt had the right to help, but if he saved Percival's life at the cost of many others, neither one of them could ever forgive him, neither one of them would be able to move on and continue living. If he saved Percival's life by killing others, by killing people and furbels who had done nothing to them, he wouldn't be saving Percival, he would just be forcing him to live with the torment and the guilt and the consequences of Newt's choice.

With that one act, he would save Percival's life but destroy Percival. The body would live on, but the spirit, the heart, the soul – those would be dead, they would be gone. It wouldn't be living, it would be worse than dying, and Newt couldn't do that to Percival, just like he couldn't bring himself to disapparate them while knowing what kind of consequences the act would have on all the living beings in and around the building. He loved Percival too much to force that on him, even though Percival's death would cause him such pain that he would never recover.

"Love" was too soft a word for something that mauled and ripped and tore one's heart, too soft and pretty a word for the all-encompassing determination that would have one knowingly exposing oneself to lifelong torment so someone else could find peace in death. It was a word to be whispered in someone's ear while playing with their hair, but somehow it wasn't nearly enough to express what Newt now felt, twining their fingers together while covering the hole in Percival's chest with the other hand, the wand casted aside.

Blood seeped through his fingers, warm and fast and impossible to keep contained, impossible to control. The smell of iron, of Percival's blood, mixed with the smell of burnt sulfur, and even as Newt was so thankful it hurt that Percival was still breathing, he hated to think that Percival had to breath the bitterness of it all in.

"HELP!" he tried again, his voice sounding muffled to his own ears, but no-one ran to them, no-one came to their help. He didn't even know whom he was calling for, someone, anyone, anyone who could-

"HELP!"

Percival was deathly pale in the light of the lantern. His breaths were short and shallow. He was dying and there was nothing Newt could do about it.

"I love you," Newt told the unconscious man even as he did his best to staunch the bleeding with his hands. "I love you, Percival. Please don't go where I can't follow."

There was no response, not even a twitch of a muscle. The body under his hands remained limp.

If only he had had an alicorn with him, the desperate thought came to Newt, if only he had had an alicorn or a phoenix – or any one of the countless of other creatures capable of healing – there with him, he could have used them to heal Percival. Tears of a phoenix healed any a wound, alicorns were known for their healing powers – their magic would likely not have reacted to the furbel drool, stemming as it would have from the same natural wild magic furbels contained, and they could have helped Percival.

But Newt did not have an alicorn, not even in his suitcase, and he had only ever twice encountered a phoenix – which was not at all helpful in their current circumstances. The only creatures there in the cellar with them were the furbels and Newt hadn't yet managed to study furbels thoroughly enough to know whether they had any kind of healing power in them.

"Hetty! Gulp!" he tried calling for Percival's house elves, hoping the house elves could help their master where he couldn't, but neither one answered his calls, likely not even hearing him.

Fighting against tears, Newt looked from Percival's pale face to his own blood-smeared hands pressing against the warm chest. His wrists were bleeding where the ropes had broken the skin and had left it chipped and smarting, but he hardly noticed the physical pain from his internal turmoil.

He couldn't move Percival. If he did, Percival would likely be dead before they reached the top of the cellar stairs. He couldn't use magic, or he would be killing others and destroying Percival. He could have tried to run outside and to apparate to

where

but even if he managed to find something that could help, Percival would have been dead by the time he got back, so little time they now had.

The reality of their desperate situation sunk in: If Newt left, he would come back to a body. The only thing he could now do was to be there so Percival wouldn't need to be alone when he died.

It was the time for farewells.

With a strangled sob, Newt leant his forehead against Percival's. The skin against his was clammy like Death had already been caressing it. Tears ran down Newt's cheeks and continued their way down Percival's face.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," Newt whispered, his breath ghosting from Percival's skin. "I'm sorry I can't help you. I'm sorry I was used to lure you in here. I'm sorry we wasted so much time and-"

It hurt to speak, it tore his heart.

Percival's lips were cold and dry when Newt kissed them.

"Goodbye, my darling."

Drops of blue furbel drool were drippling from the ceiling down onto the side of Percival's face. Newt wiped them away with the back of his hand, with the back of his wrist – to have Percival, ever so careful about his looks, stained like that when he was helpless to do anything about it, it felt like a crime.

The drool soaked the fabric of his sleeve, he felt the warm liquid on his right wrist – and suddenly the pain of his chipped skin disappeared, the smarting of his wrist disappeared. Frowning, Newt pulled his sleeve up – only to see that there were no longer any wounds on his wrist where furbel drool had touched him. The wounds had disappeared and in their place there was perfect smooth skin like he had never been fighting against any kinds of bindings.

His breath hitching, Newt was quick to roll up his other sleeve and to look at the left wrist. The wrist was chipped, the wounds clearly marking where his hands had been bound together. Swallowing hard, Newt touched his wrists together, spreading the furbel drool onto his bloody skin – only for the wounds to start closing, for the pain to disappear.

He stared at his healed wrist, wide-eyed, looking slowly from it to the hole in Percival's chest. Furbel drool had immense healing powers? It certainly looked like it.

Newt shot up to his feet, ignoring the pain in his knee as he did so. He hurried to the wall and grabbed as many furbels as he could, arms full, running then back to Percival, all the while fearing that the man would no longer be breathing by the time he came back. Percival was, fortunately, still breathing when Newt got back to his side – although it was obvious that he would not for much longer.

The furbels were like cotton balls the size of a child's fist, but with long blue tails and tiny legs. Drool was dribbling from their large, toothless mouths, and Newt regarded them carefully, desperately. He held the furbels above Percival's chest and the furbels drooled into the gunshot wound beneath them.

Slowly, gradually, Percival's breathing became steadier and his chest began to rise and fall like Death was no longer about to fly him away at any given moment. Newt was transfixed to the steady movement, he kept looking from Percival's closed eyes to his rising, falling, rising, falling, rising chest and his heart beat fast, a newfound hope filling it.

"That's it," he said, holding the drooling furbels even closer to the bleeding wound, "that's it, darling. Come back. Come back to me."

A sudden weight on his shoulder had Newt giving a start – and Tina in her Auror uniform – black boots, dark blue robes – knelt down beside him, her worried gaze going from Newt to Percival and back again, even as her hand stayed there on Newt's shoulder. He blinked at her. Where had she come from?

Never moving the furbels from above Percival's chest, Newt looked around. The cellar was now swarming with Aurors. Rodilus was there along with at least nine Junior Aurors, but Newt, with his ears still ringing, hadn't heard them running down the stairs. Rodilus was standing by Mathias' unconscious form, gesturing sharply, and even though Newt couldn't hear a word he was saying – shouting, from the looks of it – every line of his body language made it clear Rodilus was giving orders, commands, expecting to be obeyed.

Ipston was kneeling on the other side of Percival with two Junior Aurors, the three of them already giving him Muggle first aid, the expressions on their faces ones of grim concentration.

"Don't use magic!" Newt warned them all and Ipston shot him a sharp look before her fair eyes went back to Percival. "The blue substance around us is furbel drool and it can explode if it comes into contact with magic! Percival's got furbel drool all over him, and even though it stabilized him, we still can't use magic to heal him further. He must be washed first – and even then we have to be cautious until there is no longer any furbel drool in his body."

The hand on his shoulder moved to rest on his neck, the leather glove smooth against his skin. Newt looked at Tina. Frowning, she was gesturing from Percival to the furbels Newt was holding in his hands, her lips moving like she was asking him something.

"Furbel drool has healing powers," he told her, not quite sure if he was answering what she had asked. "It can be volatile, but it also stabilized him. I don't know why that is. I must research the drool further."

She was saying something again, but Newt couldn't make it out. He shook his head.

"I can't hear anything. H-He," Newt glanced over his shoulder at Mathias' unconscious body the Aurors were now in a process of searching, "he shot Percival in the chest. He shot Percival in the chest and Percival almost… he almost… If it hadn't been for the drool, Percival would have…"

Newt couldn't bring himself to say "passed away" out loud, not now when Percival had only just returned from the brink of death, but Tina seemed to understand anyway, judging from how huge her eyes now were. She looked over his shoulder and said something, likely addressing Rodilus, or at least it was Rodilus who appeared on Newt's other side.

Rodilus looked calm enough, professional, but his eyes were blazing with fury, with barely concealed rage. Three Junior Aurors were carrying an unconscious Mathias up the stairs and Rodilus now knelt by Newt's side with a twirl of his robes. Taking in Percival's still body, his face hardened.

"I can't hear anything," was Newt's answer to whatever enquiry it was that Rodilus made. "Mathias s-shot Percival and I can't hear anything."

Tina and Rodilus exchanged a few words, their eyes going from Newt to Percival and back again. Despite of not hearing anything, Newt proceeded to tell them what had happened, all the while holding the furbels above Percival's chest so the furbel drool could heal the gunshot wound. For once he had no trouble talking to Rodilus, his inner turmoil not leaving room for such things as shyness and feeling self-conscious.

Percival was taken to The Sleeping Alicorn. Newt made sure that everyone was careful to not cast any a spell on him due to the furbel drool, but as soon as Percival had been laid down on a bed and the healers began to give him Muggle medical care, Tina and Rodilus were guiding Newt to the waiting room so the healers could work in peace. Kilonski stayed outside the operation room, guarding its door, guarding Percival.

Tina sat Newt down on a chair and Rodilus brought him a basin full of water. Newt stared at the water, unsure of what he was supposed to do with it, but then Tina was taking a hold of his shaking hands - he couldn't stop shaking - putting them in the warm water, rubbing some flowery soap on his skin. It wasn't until he saw the clear water turning into a rusty shade or red-brown that he realized his hands were covered in Percival's dried blood and that Tina was now washing it gently off of him.

His tears made her look blurry.

Percival didn't die, but he remained unconscious. Doctor Frederick was hesitant to use any spells, wanting to wait until there was no more furbel drool anywhere in his body, and so there was little to do but to wait for Percival to wake up on his own or for the furbel drool to leave the body naturally, whichever would happen first.

Newt's hearing returned with a little help from the healers and someone took care of his knee. He began to divide his time between tending to his creatures in the suitcase and sitting by Percival's bedside, waiting for him to open his eyes. There was always a Senior Auror outside guarding the door – Rodilus, Kilonski, Bariton, Ipston and Bartolomeus had taken Newt's abduction and Percival getting gravely wounded very personally indeed. They refused to tell Newt what had happened to Mathias, only saying that he was conscious and aware and that he "had been questioned", but that was all they said, telling Newt to not worry about a thing, they would take care of everything, they said.

"You just stay with the bossman."

Tina and Queenie came by regularly, often just sitting quietly next to Newt, offering him their silent support. Jacob always sent him something sweet and delicious to eat, but he didn't come in person, Queenie wouldn't let him, wary as she was of all the Aurors around.

Apart from Tina, Queenie and Newt, the only other guest the Senior Aurors allowed in was President Picquery. President Picquery came to see Percival on his second day in The Sleeping Alicorn. She sat there with Newt for many hours after Tina and Queenie had left, talking about this and that, sighing occasionally, looking sad and tired and worried as she regarded Percival who remained unconscious.

"I like to tease him," she told Newt with a sigh, playing with her sapphire earring. "I used to believe he didn't mind, that it was a part of our friendship, that he understood I did it all fondly."

This time her sigh was heavy and the look she gave Newt almost hesitant.

"I do wonder," she cleared her throat, "if he has said anything about that to you. I don't mean to intrude or put you in an uncomfortable position, but I would very much appreciate it, if you could tell me if I have insulted him somehow."

Newt blinked at her from where he was holding Percival's hand, rubbing circles on the back of it.

"Why would you think you have insulted him?"

She evaded his gaze, looking uncomfortable, crossing her arms on her chest.

"I had thought we were friends," she said, voice tight, "but clearly something must have happened, seeing as he hasn't even told me you two have gotten engaged."

Face reddening, Newt quickly casted his gaze down, looking everywhere but at her. He focused his look on the hand he was holding, caressing the dark hair on the back of it. It wasn't coarse at all. Surprisingly soft, if anything.

"W-We're not engaged, Madam," he managed after quite a lot of swallowing.

He felt her gaze suddenly sharp against his skin and heard more so than saw her unfolding her arms and leaning forward, closer.

"You're not?" was said rather skeptically.

Newt hurried to shake his head, his blush deepening.

"But I would have thought," she sounded earnestly bewildered, "the way he looks at you… You two are always… I was sure that you had for months already-"

Coughing softly, she fell quiet.

They sat in silence for long enough for Newt's skin to cool down, for his blush to gradually disappear, even as he couldn't get it out of his mind: he and Percival, engaged.

"In that case," Picquery finally broke the silence, sounding determined, "I do expect to be invited to the engagement party. Do make sure Percival is aware of this when he wakes up."

And Newt's blush came back, tenfold.

A week after he had been shot, the furbel drool had finally left Percival's body and Doctor Frederick began to heal him with magic. It only took some hours after that for Percival to open his eyes and only six days for him to be back at work like nothing had ever happened. Newt was there the whole time, right by Percival's side, but not once did they discuss anything of importance, the air between them heavy with tension.

Newt wanted Percival to be completely healthy again before they would Talk.

Percival didn't want to talk, insisting he was busy.

"I'm not going to force you," Newt eventually said. "You do what best suits you. I do what I have to do."

And when Percival came back from his meeting with Picquery, Newt's suitcase was no longer under the sofa and a letter on the desk informed him that Newt had left - with the intention of staying away, too.