Absolutely not.
Credence is not going to fall for that.
Mr. Graves said the same thing. I want those things too, Credence. I want them for you.
And now, here Mr. Scamander is, telling him he doesn't want Credence as a man wants a woman, but as a man wants a man? Credence saw it coming from a mile away. How many times has he heard men walking by him on the street, saying, she's crazy, but she's a good lay. All the time.
If anything, he's surprised Mr. Scamander is so blatant about it, so open. So obvious. It makes Credence think he's genuine, or he wouldn't be so stupid about it. And then he thinks maybe Mr. Scamander's being stupid about it deliberately to get Credence to think he's genuine.
And then Credence thinks of how genuine and awkward Mr. Scamander always is, with his awkward smile and rambling sentences, offering to help again. And again. And again. And then he thinks the whole thing must be an act, of course, every moment of it an act. And then he wonders if he's even worth that much trouble.
And then he thinks of the men tramping around the streets at night, doing absolutely ridiculous things to get a lay.
I'd tell her the world was flat if it got me a night in that bed.
Around and around it goes.
But he seemed to mean it.
He seemed so nervous.
And he seemed so hurt, when Credence told him on no uncertain terms that he never wanted… that sort of thing with Mr. Scamander.
And he didn't seem angry. Not one bit. Not entitled or offended or cheated. He did not say after everything I've done for you or you owe me this much.
Newt Scamander said yes, of course.
And then he went right down into his case, without even looking at Credence or touching Credence or trying to change Credence's mind. He stopped at the top, and Credence had thought Mr. Scamander would come up and—
But only said the case is quite light, actually. He hadn't looked at Credence. Just stared down, down, meek as anything you'd ever seen. You can move it if you want me gone.
And snap, the case pulled up shut over him.
It's just words, he thinks. It doesn't mean anything. All day. All the next day. All through his evening's magic lessons with Tina—she doesn't hold out her hand and mingle their magic; she's here for the technical side. Spells are like this. These are some basics. Here's what you can and can't do.
In one ear and out the other.
Mr. Scamander walks by, case clutched tight in his hand, to the front door, off to who-knows-where, and Credence forgets he's even in a lesson.
Mr. Scamander doesn't look at him.
Mr. Scamander comes back, looking a bit disturbed and pink from the cold. He doesn't look Credence's way then, either.
Or the next day, or the next. It isn't a cold shoulder. Mr. Scamander is not shunning him; Credence can feel it. No, Mr. Scamander, other than not looking at Credence, is very caring, still.
He cooks Credence eggs when it becomes clear Credence isn't a fan of oatmeal—not Tina's anyway. He washes the dishes and cleans and offers Credence books to read and money to go enjoy himself, and a nice hat if he'd like to go looking for that job, and he makes Credence hot cocoa. Mr. Scamander asks him how his lessons with Tina are going and he listens as if these aren't things he learned when he was scarcely old enough to read.
He just does it all while looking at the floor, or his shoes, or the dark wood table.
And he doesn't offer up his hand to help Credence practice getting used to his magic anymore. But when Credence holds out his hand, Mr. Scamander's fingers link with his in an instant.
Mr. Scamander's magic is… his magic is different now. It doesn't meander and trickle gently through him, a summer's breeze. It still intertwines their power, as if holding Credence's hand. Helping Credence's magic show itself safely, coaxing it out.
It's still doing everything it needs to do. It's just… there's something… more tentative about it, more hesitant—and Mr. Scamander was no small amount of tentative before.
Credence finds himself thinking perhaps I don't want anything like that with you, ever could have been a bit harsh.
And then he thinks, no. No, what is he thinking, the point was to be harsh, to show Mr. Scamander he needed to back off.
Mr. Scamander confuses him so very much.
Tina's trying to teach him to make things float in the air with magic—apparently a staple of wizarding life—when Mr. Scamander shuffles back into the room with nasty looking red spot on his cheek. Credence knows from experience it'll probably become a bruise soon.
Tina's too busy saying, with careful enunciation, Wingardium Leviosa to do more than glance up and say hello, but Credence stares at Mr. Scamander.
Credence has spent a lot of time staring at Mr. Scamander lately. It's easy to not get caught, and Credence finds himself doing it more and more, trying to figure the man out. He's got Mr. Scamander's face practically memorized now, from the way he smiles crooked when he's sheepish or bashful to the way his curls fall when he ducks his head. A bit longer and he'll be able to say for certain how many freckles are on his face.
Credence apologizes quickly to Tina. Tina just looks at him, at the door to the guest room that Mr. Scamander has just gone through, and gives him a fondly exasperated smile. Credence's cheeks flush without his permission, and he hurries after Mr. Scamander.
Mr. Scamander blinks at him when Credence asks about the bruise, halfway into his case, his blue eyes wide. His eyes always widen a bit when he looks up, as if a little bewildered by what he's looking at every time. He casts a Healing spell. Better, he says. Doesn't hurt.
Credence says he's glad Mr. Scamander isn't hurting anymore.
Mr. Scamander flushes deeply, his eyes flicking up again. And then back down, the corner of his mouth twitching. He seems disproportionately pleased that Credence doesn't want Mr. Scamander bloody and bruised. Of course, he doesn't. It'd be a bit of a loss for a face like that to get beaten up.
Credence doesn't say that.
Credence doesn't think that.
He doesn't—Mr. Scamander is—well, he's good looking. That's true. That's just… that's just how things are. It doesn't mean anything.
Credence asks, again, how he got hurt.
Mr. Scamander hesitates.
And Credence just. Snaps at him. "Do you think I'm a freak, Mr. Scamander?"
Mr. Scamander starts so hard, he almost falls off of whatever he's standing on down there in his case, his mouth falling open. He sputters. No.
So then why is Mr. Scamander acting like this? Is he upset that Credence won't sleep with him?
Mr. Scamander looks horrified. He shakes his head, denying it immediately. Of course not, he says, again and again. Of course not, Credence. Oh I couldn't. I could never.
Credence just frowns.
Mr. Scamander looks at him. He decides something. He climbs out of his suitcase and sits on the edge of his bed and reaches into his pocket for a piece of paper.
He says there's a potion that could change Credence's body.
The first thing Credence thinks is that he's lying. He's lying, for whatever reason, he's lying. That's not possible. Maybe he's going to slip Credence a love potion instead? Promises are fallible things, constructed out of words only. It's easy to say as many words in whatever order as you like. It doesn't mean they're true.
The second thing he thinks is no, no that isn't a lie, because there's no way that lie would go uncaught.
The third is how long it'll last, but Mr. Scamander's still chattering on nervously, and that's quickly answered: he'll have to take a dose every morning and every night, and after two months, he'll be fully changed, and… it'll stick. For the rest of his life, unless he chooses to go back.
And then Mr. Scamander is handing him the list of ingredients, and telling him he doesn't have to decide if he wants to do it now, but he should have the paper, if he wants it, and he needs only to say the word if he wants to take it, or if he never wants to talk about it again.
Mr. Scamander explains that he didn't want to mention it before, in case it was presumptuous and because things were already moving so quickly, he thought this on top of everything else might overwhelm Credence.
Sure he did. Still rambling on. Words upon words upon words.
But Credence can't even bring himself to mind the excuse.
Credence doesn't know so many of the things on the list. He sees banana among all those strange-sounding ingredients, and he laughs. He thinks he may be in shock—a good kind of shock.
Shavings of a unicorn's horn? Mr. Scamander has some, apparently.
The slime from a Billywig's sting? Mr. Scamander has a Billywig, whatever that is.
Leech juice? Oh, god. Credence wrinkles his nose, and Mr. Scamander doesn't look any happier about it, but he promises Credence he'll find it.
The spleen of a newt? Credence laughs quietly at that one, and Mr. Scamander looks quickly over at him when he does, a soft sort of smile on his face. He has that, too.
Knotgrass? No trouble.
Credence looks down at the list again. "Ash-winder egg?"
Mr. Scamander rubs the back of his neck his expression sheepish. "I wasn't sure if you wanted to Transition," he begins. Which he's already said. "I didn't mean to be presumptuous." He's already said that, too.
"I do."
"You do?" Mr. Scamander echoes. "You're sure?" He doesn't sound as if he's skeptical of Credence's decision or approving of it either. He sounds only as if he's checking.
"I do."
Mr. Scamander reaches into one of the deep pockets of his blue coat and pulls out this clear-looking, oblong thing, with a warm, fiery glow inside of it.
"I was—I wasn't assuming you wanted to, mind. But I thought—well, I thought if you did—Ashwinder eggs are hard to come across, see, and I gave one to someone a couple months ago, and he was about to sell it to someone else and I thought I really ought to buy it off of him while I could. I mean. They're very hard to come by."
That's where he was going? Off to buy this… egg? Why didn't he just tell that to Credence when Credence asked? Credence cups the egg, which is cold in his palm, frozen.
"I didn't want to make it seem like I'd made the decision for you," Mr. Scamander answers him, fiddling with his wand. "I just wanted to have it on hand in case you did want to, after all."
Credence reads out the last one: fluxweed plucked at the full moon. "Full moon isn't for another three weeks."
"Ah," says Mr. Scamander. "I picked some. Just in case."
"At the last full moon?"
"Yes. It has to be the last full moon for this one." Mr. Scamander smiles sheepishly. "Took me a couple weeks to find that paper, so I—well, by then it was full moon, and I thought. Might as well."
"Oh." Credence looks back down at the paper. "Yes, I see."
Mr. Scamander pulls out a soft brown drawstring bag and hands it to Credence—it has a plant that Credence has never seen before in it. "That's the fluxweed. You can put everything we need in there; the bag will expand. You can hold onto it unless you'd rather I do."
"I'll keep it." Credence sets down the bag, folds up the list, and puts the list inside.
Something's nagging at him, and he thinks about it again. The last full moon. The last full moon was… a week ago.
Before Mr. Scamander even explained that he… saw Credence that way. Mr. Scamander looked for this potion and found it and even started thinking about the ingredients before—
Goodness.
Credence's heart stutters in his chest, constricting.
He'd even told Credence that he was a homosexual. He'd mentioned before it wasn't looked down upon with witches.
"Credence?" Mr. Scamander peers up at him, his eyebrows drawn together. "Are you alright? I'm sorry if I brought it up too soon—of course if you don't want to do it just yet there's a full moon every month—which I'm sure you already know—"
Credence shakes his head quickly and grips the bag. "This month is fine. I'm not second-guessing myself, Mr. Scamander."
"Oh, well. Alright." Mr. Scamander seems to study him, his lip between his teeth. "Do you want me to leave you alone for a bit? Am I—"
"You said these were rare." Credence is getting more comfortable interrupting. He has to interrupt sometimes, with Mr. Scamander. Credence holds out his other hand, the one with the Ashwinder egg in it, still cold against his skin. "How much did you have to pay for this?"
"Oh." Mr. Scamander looks away from him. This may have been the longest Mr. Scamander has looked at him in the past week. Credence wants Mr. Scamander to look at him again. "Don't worry about that."
"How much?"
Mr. Scamander reaches for his case, kneels on the floor, and flips it open, careful to angle it away from Credence. He's noticed Credence's fear of it. "It was nothing, really. I was exaggerating when I said they were hard to come by."
Credence just frowns at him.
Mr. Scamander sighs. "A lot," he admits, moving towards Credence. "But this is worth it."
He's close enough that Credence can feel him, inches away, like a magnet. Mr. Scamander's looking down at the egg. Credence is looking up at Mr. Scamander.
"Mr. Sc—"
"Let me give this to you, Credence." Mr. Scamander's warm, freckled fingers close Credence's cold ones around the Ashwinder egg. "Please?"
Credence nods.
He watches Mr. Scamander disappear into the case.
His hand tingles.
NewtThe Billywigs are easy to entice down, because they're used to being fed every evening with regularity.
They're a bit less used to being caught and having the slime carefully extracted from their stingers, but they bear it with minimal angry buzzing, and in the end, he gives them a few more sweets than may be good for them, and they settle down, buzzing much more contentedly.
When the vial is filled, he heads back to his shed, tucking the vial into his pocket and rifling through his disorganized cabinets. There's Dittany and dozens of ointment vials, antidotes for practically anything a magical creature can give you. He finds what he's looking for: a little jam jar full of clear, preservative liquid, and a little newt's spleen floating inside of it.
He's never been fond of potions himself—he finds it hard to swallow what's in them, no pun intended—but one has brewing needs every now and again.
Bicorn horn… dragon horn… dragon liver… pearl dust… Ah, there it is: Unicorn horn shavings.
He hands them over to Credence when he climbs back up. "Now all that's left is leech juice, and I'll buy that tomorrow," he tells Credence, snapping his case shut and putting it on the floor at the foot of his bed. "And a banana."
"That was—fast. How much is…" Credence's voice pitches up, almost amused. Newt's heart flutters. "Leech juice?" There's a soft clinking as he pulls the drawstrings of the bag and slips the new ingredients in.
Newt looks down at himself—he's still wearing his working clothes: brown trousers, white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. He fiddles with his sleeves and pulls them down. "It's a different currency for wizard's things. You can most certainly pay me back for the clothes, but I can't have you paying me back for things I buy from wizards, you know."
He summons a sweater to wear over his clothes and pulls open the door, holding it for Credence. "I suppose we're late again. Took me longer than I expected to find the ingredients I needed."
"I don't think Tina and Queenie expect you to be on time anyway."
Newt has to laugh—he's probably right—but the laugh catches in his throat when he glances up from the fascinating wood floor for a moment and sees Credence's half-smile. He can't look away. There's a commotion in his heart that would put the Erumpent to shame.
Credence hesitates at the door, which happens to be a terrible time for him to hesitate, because with Newt holding the door, Newt has that little half smile right there. Right in front of him. Like, two feet? One foot?
Merlin, he's meant to be keeping his feelings under wraps.
Credence has that look again, the intense stare. "Thank you, Mr. Scamander."
"It's noth—"
"Stop," Credence murmurs, still staring. Helga help him, that stare could melt Newt right where he stands. "It's not nothing. Thank you."
Definitely no more than a foot between them. And his mouth is serious now, his lips pink. Well. They're always pink.
In any case, they're right here. The two of them. Credence's voice is soft, like a stream over rounded rocks.
"You're welcome," Newt manages, and he makes sure to look at Credence's eyes and not his mouth while he says it. And Credence is still staring back at him, with and expression so serious he could almost be angry, and—
"You're late yet again, Mr. Scamander!" Tina's voice cuts through whatever nonsense Newt was thinking about—nevermind.
Credence blinks and takes a step back, nearly hitting the doorframe, but doesn't. He steps neatly around it and goes to dinner.
Bugger.
Credence had, for the last… two or three weeks, at least, acted a bit—well, Newt didn't exactly want to say cold, but certainly not like—like that.
The silverware settles gently onto the table, which Newt now realizes is quite decked out: ham and potatoes and hot sweet bread with butter, a meat pie and a glass of wine at each setting, which Tina is eyeing apprehensively.
"Oh," Newt says, settling into his seat across from—oh of course it's across from Credence. His voice is scratchy; he clears his throat. "New Year's eve, isn't it?"
"You're color's a bit high." Queenie's eyes flit over him. "Are there places where it's summer down in your case?"
"Er—yes. A couple, yes." It's not quite a lie. It's just a bit misleading. "Thank you for this dinner."
"Oh!" Queenie blinks, and looks down at her plate, and smiles. "Yes! Enjoy! Tina made the mashed potatoes! And! There's a surprise!"
Newt looks at Tina. Tina looks at Newt.
She doesn't seem to know any more than he does.
Newt looks at Credence. Credence is looking at his loaded plate, almost bewildered by it. He doesn't seem to know anything of what's going on with Queenie either. But something is clearly going on with Queenie.
"Please, eat!" Queenie has to say this every time, or Credence won't start eating. "It's three hours until midnight! Enjoy it!"
Even Credence furrows his brow at her, but he obediently ducks his head and picks up his fork, his hair falling over his forehead. "Thank you," he says. He always does.
"Remind me to cut your hair sometime," Queenie tells him.
Newt can see Credence smile, and something swoops in his chest.
The doorbell rings.
Queenie stands up with a clatter. "Oh!" she says, upsetting the tableware. "There he is."
And so he is. Newt, closest to the door, pulls it open curiously to find—
Jacob Kowalski.
He's got a clean suit on, crisp and pressed, which matches the level of formality of Queenie's fluttering pink dress, if not the relatively casual work jacket Tina has on and the frankly disorganized state of Newt's own ensemble.
He's got a sheepish, curious smile, looking just as Newt remembers, and a white box with Happy New Year lettered on it.
And he's got a sour old woman with a pinched mouth and grey hair right behind him. "You're not allowed to bring any men here!" She points her finger at Queenie. "Who did you—who is this?" She looks at Newt, who probably should have left the door-opening to Queenie.
Tina saves them all from creating even more of a commotion. "Ah, Mrs. Esposito, this is New Years Eve, can't we invite a few family members?" She puts a hand on Newt's elbow and smiles. "This is our cousin! He's in America for a few weeks."
Mrs. Esposito looks at Newt and sniffs. "British, eh?"
"Er—pleasure, ma'am."
Mrs. Esposito colors. "Well. I suppose you can stay. If you're sure he's your cousin."
"Oh yes, quite," Newt says quickly. "And Jacob here, he's—another cousin." It's an obvious lie, but Mrs. Esposito no longer seems interested in sniffing out their dishonesties. "Come on in, Jacob."
Jacob, his mouth half open during all of this, raises his eyebrows, closes his mouth, and trots inside. "You have a bit of a crowded apartment for tonight," he chuckles. "I like your place. It feels familiar."
Tina shoots Queenie a look behind Jacob, and Queenie mouths I know. Newt can tell from their expressions that they'll be having a conversation about this later, but Tina's not going to bring it up now.
Instead, they enjoy themselves through dinner, which lasts quite a while because they're talking so much, and because there's so much food.
"Ham?" Newt offers the platter to Credence, who hesitates over it; he still doesn't like taking seconds, even if he seems to want them. Newt holds a couple slices over Credence's plate and raises his eyebrows. He gets a smile. Just the flicker of one, shy. He almost drops the platter.
"Alright," Credence agrees.
Newt can't help the smile that pulls at his own mouth. When he looks away, Tina's staring at him, her eyes knowing. "Ah—ham?" he offers.
She just rolls her eyes, takes the platter, and hands it over Queenie's way.
"I'm so happy you came," Queenie's saying. "Really, I am."
Jacob beams, looking still a bit surprised. "Well, I—" he tries to wave it off. "When a girl like you just disappears, you gotta look around for her, don't you?"
Queenie beams. "Oh, stop." She offers the ham. "Please, you're too kind."
Newt hides a smile behind his napkin. They have a compliment battle over Queenie's cooking and Jacob's pastries once dinner is over, and the dishes pile into the sink. It's almost awkward, standing there. It gets worse when Jacob offers to do the dishes—Tina and Queenie clearly don't want to let him, but they don't do dishes well without magic, and Newt doesn't really know how to either.
"Oh… leave them," Queenie insists. "We'll do them later; it's nearly midnight!"
It's almost forty-five minutes to midnight.
Credence pushes back from the table. "I'll do them," he says. Everyone looks at him, and his cheeks go pink. "I'll do the dishes."
"Well," Tina says.
"It is only eleven fifteen," Queenie admits.
"Alright," Newt agrees.
Credence looks delighted. Other than reading and familiarizing himself with magic when Newt and Tina have the time to spare, he hasn't had much to do, aside from his job interviews. He seems to enjoy having something to help with.
And he hand-washes dishes very efficiently—it's admirable, really, the way he can do them with a sort of rhythm; one, a whoosh of water, the soft sound of the cloth, clink; the next, water, cloth, clink; just like that. The white plates stacked here, the glasses lined up here.
Newt darts in and puts them away as he sets them down, with considerably less grace. His fingers brush Credence's about a dozen times, and by the time Credence is halfway through the dishes, Newt is convinced someone else should be putting the dishes away, before Newt ends up dropping one of them.
Miraculously, all of the dishes get into their rightful places undamaged. Newt tucks his hands into his pockets. His poor hands have gone through enough for today.
"Newt!" Queenie pushes a champagne glass at him, and he has to reach out and take it, unfortunately. At least it's Queenie handing it to him; when their hands brush, it doesn't send the same jolt through him. "Ten minutes until midnight!"
He shakes the glass and watches the bubbles fizz, aware of Credence at his elbow. The bubbles rise pleasantly. He doesn't drink too much, and he hasn't had Muggle alcohol in a while.
Beside him, Credence accepts a glass with equal bewilderment, shifting a bit closer to Newt without looking up from the bubbles. "I've never really had New Years like this," he confessed quietly to Newt. "Or had… or drunk anything."
Newt almost thinks he finished the wine from dinner for a moment, and is now very, very drunk. But no; he'd only taken a sip or two. Credence is really talking to him, for no prompted reason. Completely unnecessarily. Presumably out of an interest in conversation. With Newt.
"Ah!" Newt says. Like an idiot. "Really?"
Credence leans gently against the edge of the sink behind him and lifts his eyes to Newt's face. His mouth is in a little bit of a frown, as always, looking supremely unimpressed with Newt's attempted conversation. "Ma didn't… we didn't drink."
Newt suspects there's a lot more behind that statement that Credence would rather leave unsaid, but he's glad, at least, that Credence is comfortable enough to say this much. And to him. He imagines letting a few choice creatures at Mary Lou, but she's already gone.
"You don't have to drink it, if you don't want to." Newt glances at the clock: it's five minutes until. "I don't drink often either, you know. We'll be drinking it together."
Credence's eyes drop back down to the rim of his glass, catching the light of the lamps. "It's reassuring. That we'll both be drinking it."
"Oh," says Newt. His stomach flutters, as if the champagne has already gone down. "Oh, well, I'm glad to be of service, then." He hopes he doesn't look too flushed, or if he does, Credence will attribute it to the excitement of the New Year, and the general anticipation thick in the air.
Tina's watching the clock, fingers tapping against her glass, a bright smile on her face. "Back as an Auror this year," she says, softly, as if to herself. She looks behind her and sees Newt and Credence standing… a bit close, Newt realizes. Their elbows are an inch away from brushing. She raises her eyebrows and smiles wider.
Newt resists the urge to react with immediate denial—Credence clearly has no idea what's going on, and he'd like to not tip him off. Certainly he is not kissing Credence at midnight.
A resigned sort of melancholy steals into his heart, then. Like smooth and slinky as a cat, curling at the bottom of his heart as if a drop of misery belongs there. Credence very, very much does not want that. Aside from his reaction to Tina's clothes and Newt's suitcase, Credence objected to having anything like that with Newt ever more violently than he'd objected to anything else.
It hurts a bit. That he's so sure.
Queenie and Jacob drift closer, not at all subtle, both chanting eagerly as the clock winds down, counting off the seconds from the second hand.
Newt grips his glass tighter. It's New Years, and he's not going to be one of those arseholes that sits around feeling victimized because someone doesn't want them. Credence has every right to find him absolutely unappealing and it's understandable, really, and Credence probably just doesn't like men—
"Five!" Even Tina has joined in.
"Four!"
Credence has stopped leaning on the counter and is standing up straight, now.
"Three!" Newt joins, quietly.
"Two!"
Credence smiles. Merlin, he's got a smile that could bring a new year all on its own.
"One!" Queenie shrieks it louder than everyone else, and turns to Jacob, and Newt turns politely away.
Credence reaches out and clinks his glass to Newt's, his smile softening. "Happy New Year," he says.
"Happy New Year," Newt echoes, and he can't help a smile either. He tips his head back takes a good sip, a New Year's sip—
And just then, Credence's fingers link with his own.
The warmth that explodes in Newt's chest has nothing to do with the champagne, or the New Year.
He opens his hand into Credence's and lets Credence's magic link with his, intertwining. He closes his eyes into the feeling of Credence's magic, sweeping like the sea, and the press of Credence's skin against his palm.
When Newt opens his eyes, Credence is looking at him. It's the stare again, unreadable. The lights make his eyes shine. Credence's gaze jumps to Queenie and Jacob, and he seems to realize just now that they're kissing in the corner, their champagne glasses left on the table.
Credence's eyes jerk away quickly, and then he pulls his hand gently from Newt's, severing their bond. Newt almost tells Credence he wasn't getting the wrong impression, but before he does, Credence speaks up.
"I like it," he says.
"Hmm?" Newt doesn't know what to do with his hand, which still feels electric. He feels like cupping it to his chest, but that would be weird. He thinks of letting it hang at his side, but he wonders if that would be too stiff. But if it isn't stiff enough, it'll be as if he's flexing his hand, which is also weird.
"The champagne," Credence clarifies. "I think I like it." He takes another sip. His smile—almost bemused, a bit curious, a bit pleased—spurs Newt to shove his unoccupied hand in his coat pocket and look quickly away.
"Yes, it's pleasant, isn't it?" He's a stunning conversationalist.
His eyes end up on Tina, who's looking at them with a speculative look. As if sensing how badly he needs a rescue, she joins them, clinking her glass gently with both of theirs.
"To a happy new year," she says. "This year, I'm going to find someone who makes me happy. What about you, Newt?"
Oh, for Merlin's sake. She saw him hanging off the cliff, in need of rescue, and stomped on his hand. Thanks, Tina. "I'm going to get more familiar with my Nundu and evaluate how it's adjusting to relocation." Newt's already familiar, but it's the first thing that he can think of. "I… he's the big leopard looking one, that looks as if he has a mane of spikes. The one that goes out onto the ledge of rocks when I go down."
His words don't really mean anything to them; they've never been down in his case to see his animals. Tina's busy. Credence doesn't want to.
"The one that can destroy the populations of entire cities? You have a Nundu in your case?" Tina presses her lips together at him.
Credence starts. "Cities?" he echoes. "I thought you said they weren't dangerous."
"They're not—really. They have a bad reputation," Newt objects lamely. "They're… I'm still doing research on them, which I plan to publish in my book. It'll change some minds. I hope."
"I'm sure it will about some creatures, but the Nundu is a bit ambitious." Tina turns to Credence. "What about you?"
Credence hesitates. "I'm going to change my body this year," he says steadily. "Mr. Scamander found a—a potion about how." He stares at his champagne and stays very still.
Tina smiles. "Credence, that's wonderful! Is there anything you need? I'm not too bad at potions myself."
"Then that's better than I am." Newt takes a sip of his champagne and sets the glass down, running through the list in his head. Two things they needed…
"We need a banana," Credence mentions. And he laughs. Credence's ever-present little frown hasn't made an appearance in at least half an hour, and his face lights up when he laughs. "The list is really strange, but there's a banana."
Newt leans against the counter and looks determinedly at Tina. Tina looks great! She has a thin necklace around her throat and her no-nonsense Auror clothes on, crisp shoulders and stiff collar and everything. Newt can absolutely keep his eyes on her. "Yes. It seems we have a need for a banana and twelve ounces of leech juice."
Tina wrinkles her nose. "Twelve ounces."
"I hope to find a way to mask the taste," Newt promises Credence. "You'll be tasting heaven when I'm done, no trace of leeches at all."
Credence laughs again. He glances down at his glass. "I drank the whole thing," he observes. "I rather liked it."
Newt's chest warms. Merlin, help. There's something about being fully awake in a bright room in the middle of the night with someone. Or maybe there's just something about Credence. It may be a combination.
"I think that's our cue to go to bed," he laughs, holding his hand out to Credence and pretending like he's not holding his breath.
Credence takes his hand.
Tina's eyebrows go up.
"Goodnight, Miss Goldstien." Credence waves a little, tipping his head to look past Tina. Queenie and Jacob are laughing on the couch. "And goodnight to them, too."
"Goodnight." Tina waves them away, yawning. "I should be going too."
Credence's hand slips out of Newt's when they reach the door.
Newt opens it for him.
Credence rubs his eyes. "Are there fireworks?"
It's dark in here, because the lights aren't on, and even the bright lights of the city at the stroke of midnight, ushering a new year, don't penetrate the closed curtains. They can hear the muffled cheers of people around them, and now and again the bang of fireworks.
Newt draws back the curtains and gestures for Credence to come over to the window—colors explode across the sky brilliantly, leaving behind smoke for a moment before the lights fade and the smoke is invisible against the black night sky.
"Mr. Scamander," Credence murmurs quietly. His hands are clasped in front of him. Both of them are watching the sky. "Do witches really believe in homosexuality?" Credence sounds a bit drowsy, a bit tipsy. Curious and a little sting of lasting hurt, unfiltered.
"Yes. Well. They know there's nothing wrong with it, and they don't have any problem with it. Just like they feel about people like you."
"Oh." Credence seems to be weighing a confession. "I think that's really nice."
Newt's heart feels warm and cold at once. "Do you want to go to bed? I'm sure you're tired." He draws away from the window and Credence follows him, pulling the curtains closed.
"Yeah." Credence begins unbuttoning his shirt.
Helga save me. Newt turns quickly around and begins counting the little patterns on the wallpaper, pulling off his coat and folding it into his case. He changes his clothes to warm flannels and almost starts humming to drown out the gentle sounds of fabric sliding against skin.
"When will we make the potion?" Credence's voice comes from behind him, so real in the muted sounds around them that Newt almost jumps.
"As soon as we have all the ingredients, we can do it whenever you're ready." Newt climbs into bed, pulling the covers up to his neck and facing the wall determinedly, closing his eyes for good measure.
"That's happened to me." That tone is back: sorry and hurting, a bit confessional. "Feeling… things about men."
Newt's heart drops to his stomach. Credence might be a bit drunk right now—certainly this doesn't seem like the sort of thing he's ready to admit out loud sober. Credence probably wouldn't want me to be hearing this, he thinks.
"It's alright, Credence. There's nothing wrong with that."
Credence's bed creaks, and blankets rustle. Newt relaxes, knowing that Credence is dressed and in bed again.
"Do you ever think you're wrong?"
"About a lot of things, yes." Newt opens his eyes and stares at the wall again. It feels strange to talk with his eyes closed. "Can't be right about everything, you know. All you can do is try to get most things right. I think I've made dozens of false hypotheses about the lives of my creatures before I figured them out, and I'm sure plenty of my current hypotheses are wrong, and I haven't found out yet."
"I meant, about believing women who say they're men and the other way around. And men who desire men, and the like."
"No," Newt says clearly. "No, I'm not wrong about that."
There's a beat.
"How do you know?"
Newt opens his mouth to respond—no, he thinks, he should probably pick his words and not blurt out a bunch of nonsense. "No one knows who you are better than you know who you are," he explains finally. "And when people love each other—what can be wrong about love? Your heart can't be wrong."
He remembers Credence saying that: my heart is always wrong.
And… it hadn't occurred to him before—perhaps Credence was only so vehement about having something with Newt because of Muggles' idiotic stances and prejudices?
Newt hopes that's it.
And then he feels terrible for thinking it—how could he wish Credence was haunted by shame and self doubt even more so than he already is now, and for what? His ego?
No, he hopes it's only that he's intolerable, and horrendous, and annoying.
"You know, I never really thought about how we're both men," Credence says just then. "But you're one of them, too. A homosexual."
"I am, yes." Newt suddenly feels like pulling off the covers a bit, or casting a Cooling charm, or something. "There's nothing wrong with it."
"I think it's easier to accept homosexuality. Not as difficult for me to…. I don't know. I feel as if I'm not as bothered by it as I'd expect to be. Perhaps it's as if I've already gotten this far with… what I am, and I don't—I don't—I don't mind it."
Oh. Well.
Newt supposes this is a victory. This is a victory, sort of. That caring for other men is something that Credence is coming to terms with very quickly… coming to terms not so much. He likely came to terms with it a while ago. But to welcome it.
That's amazing.
That's amazing.
"Credence," Newt says, "that's amazing."
Credence is a wonder and adapts miraculously quickly. Newt even remembers hearing of how he'd gotten involved with Gridelwald with the agreement that he'd learn magic. He seems to hurtle straight into the things he hates about himself, assimilating with a stunning progress.
"Thank you," says Credence.
Newt isn't unhappy to hear it, even if it means Credence isn't against being with men—no, it's just about Newt after all.
He's happy to hear it.
He's very, very happy to hear it. Delighted and amazed and ecstatic and thrilled and overjoyed.
He drifts off to sleep, repeating variations of the word happy in his head.