It doesn't take long for Tina to get the banana.
It takes a bit longer for Mr. Scamander to get the leech juice.
It takes even longer for Credence to stop thinking about New Year's Eve over and over and over.
He had perhaps had a little too much. He'd said things… maybe he wouldn't have been brave enough to say otherwise. But nothing he didn't mean, and that's the strange part. He feels like he ought to have said something he didn't want to say or do something he shouldn't have done—he was drunk.
Perhaps drinking isn't an enormous sin that makes all men fools—Ma has been wrong before. Credence has seen her proved wrong again and again and again over the past month.
He also feels as if he should be having a much harder time coping with feeling these things he feels for Mr. Scamander if he's going to have this hard of a time coping with drinking alcohol….
It's just.
How can someone not feel that way for Mr. Scamander?
Mr. Scamander is hauling up this metal thing from inside of his suitcase. It's like a pot, but large and shaped as though it shouldn't really exist in the real world, like it came out of a newspaper cartoon. He calls it a "cauldron," like in the witches' stories. He's all long limbs and an awkward smile, closing the case behind him immediately—he's always careful about his case around Credence.
And his brown-reddish hair is a mess, and his eyes flick to Credence just once, always quick and then away. And Credence knows, he can see that Mr. Scamander hasn't stopped feeling—well, feeling the things that he feels about Credence.
It's only a matter of time before Mr. Scamander does something—something—about it. Grabs his hand and pulls him close and kisses him, or wraps an arm around his waist and holds him there when they're standing chest-to-back over the bubbling water in the cauldron, or walks him backward into bed when they return to their room after dinner.
And Credence—God. Credence wants him to. Credence wants him to so bad, he almost thinks he can't bear to wait.
He almost thinks Mr. Scamander's going to do it when they're both looking at the list, close enough that Credence can see the way the steam has stuck to the hair on the sides of his face, plastering it flat, leaning over it close enough to kiss. But Mr. Scamander just taps his finger on the next step and tells Credence to stir counter-clockwise.
Credence hesitantly asks if he can make it himself—he quickly points out that he's never even seen someone make a potion before, and if he botches this, they'll have to get new ingredients and wait for the next full moon and everything.
Newt promises to buy more ingredients if they need to do it again; there's no problem there. And he picked extra fluxweed just in case. He says he'll do it if Credence doesn't want to, but not to worry about botching the potion on account of Mr. Scamander's money.
Credence swallows, closes his eyes, and tries to compose himself.
Newt is handing him the spoon, repeating. Counter-clockwise.
"Why does it have to be counter?" Credence peers down at the bubbling green liquid, which is strangely consistent and viscous, even though they put liquid and solids in there. "And how did they even dissolve?"
The windows are thrown open because the steam made the room a bit muggy, and they're both standing by this cauldron thing in thin, white shirts that stick. Credence tries very hard to watch the way the thick green bubbles pop, as if in slow motion, and not look at the way Mr. Scamander's shirt clings to his torso. The winter air will cool them down soon enough, and for now, he can keep his eyes down.
He's beginning to wonder if that's why Mr. Scamander looks at the floor even more around Credence than he does with other people. He thinks, based on the look in Mr. Scamander's eyes when Mr. Scamander does look at him—yes. Maybe that's why.
"I'm not sure, really." Mr. Scamander unbuttons his collar and flips it open absentmindedly, holding his wand in his mouth as he does it. He says something around the wand that Credence doesn't understand.
"Sorry?"
Mr. Scamander takes the wand out and explains that he never really paid attention to the magical reactions of potions in class, but that the direction was very specific and if you didn't stir in the right direction, it wouldn't dissolve like that, and you might have purple goop with the newt's spleen still in their solid, chopped-up chunks.
Then he reaches around Credence, gentle wrapping his hand around Credence's hand and demonstrates.
"Just like this," he says in Credence's ear, stirring steadily counter-clockwise. "Not too slow, see? And not too fast. Make sure to touch the bottom, but don't scrape it, and go for an even circle, no wobbles."
His hand is on Credence's hand. His voice is right by Credence's ear. His thinly clothed chest can't be more than an inch away from Credence's thinly clothed back. And Credence thinks—maybe Mr. Scamander will do it now. They will finish the stirring six times counter clockwise, and Mr. Scamander will tap the ladle against the edge of the cauldron. Credence, he will say, softly, and Credence will say yes? And Mr. Scamander will ask—
Mr. Scamander steps back and lets Credence stir.
Credence stirs the potion.
Mr. Scamander checks the instructions.
"The rest of the newt's spleen goes in now," he says. His mouth turns up at this—every time they mention the newt's spleen he gets sort of amused by it, without even the tiniest bit of irony.
Credence tries to put the rest of the spleen in without making any sort of expression. It's dark, and wet, and soggy if meat can be soggy, almost slimy to the touch. And it's the spleen of a newt. But he doesn't want to seem ungrateful.
Even if he's a little bit disgusted with the things going into this concoction.
"I'm always a bit queasy about what goes into potions," Mr. Scamander remarks from behind him. "Ignorance is rarely a good thing, but for what goes into potions I do find myself wishing I could be a little more ignorant."
Credence has to smile. "It'll be worth it."
Mr. Scamander glances at him. Credence catches his eye and his heart flips in his chest. His eyes are so blue. Credence almost forgets to count the minutes before he resumes stirring.
They leave it boiling away, mugging up their room, for three days.
For three days, Mr. Scamander comes up from his case in his white shirt rolled to the elbows and his collar unbuttoned, and doesn't so much as put a coat on until they're called to dinner. For three days, Credence thinks—hopes—that Mr. Scamander will mention maybe… trying something.
They are spending nearly all day together, after all.
Mr. Scamander spends a good amount of time in his case, and Credence has landed a job at a local café. He has to put on Queenie's clothes to go, and people call him Miss and Ma'am all day, but it makes money and people tip very nicely.
But aside from that, it's just him and Mr. Scamander in their room, huddled over the potion without coats on.
He thinks maybe, on the third day, Mr. Scamander will do something when Credence hands him a little bit more of the money he's earned at the café.
"Come on," Credence urges him, "Sit next to me. Get your money."
Newt obediently scoops up the cash, settling on the bed and spreading out the bills and coins with eager curiosity. "Many different values."
"Not really."
Newt pulls them out of the pile one by one: a penny, a nickel, a dime, a quarter, a half dollar. Then he shuffles through the bills and pulls out a one, a five, a ten— "Why is there one, five and ten for coins and paper, but twenty-five for coins and twenty for paper?" Newt frowns. "Does the value of the bill suddenly decline?"
"The coins are partial bills. Parts of a one. One hundred for coins, one bill. Cents—" Credence points. "—Dollars." Credence's heart flutters in his chest—Newt is unbearable like this, his brow furrowed and his mouth turned up, as if he's laughing at himself a little. "You didn't know?"
"I'm a wizard, Credence. And also British." Newt rattles through the coins. "One cent, five cents, ten cents, twenty-five cents, fifty cents. Put the cents together, dollar. One dollar, five, ten, twenty."
"After, it's fifty and one hundred."
"One hundred? In paper?"
"It doesn't change currency every one hundred," Credence murmurs, leaning into Newt and gently nudging him with his shoulder. "You're ridiculous."
Newt hums, and Credence can feel the vibrations of it against him. "It just stays paper for the rest of… all American money?"
"Mmm-hmm." Credence is so warm where he's pressed to Newt. There's a lull to this moment, the timeless feeling of mid-afternoon on a short working day for Credence after Newt has finished with his creatures for the time being. They have hours, and that's all the time in the world.
"That's incredibly less complicated than I expected it to be," Newt remarks, sweeping them up in a disorganized pile and then shaking out the coins before stacking the bills like you might set a deck of cards straight. "I'm not sure why I didn't just go and learn it earlier."
"I'm glad I could teach you something for everything you've done for me," Credence murmurs, looking up at Newt.
Newt's eyes flicker over him, catching on his mouth, and Credence feels Newt swallow. "I'm glad I can finally do transactions with Muggles in the US."
Credence musters a laugh. "After all this time."
Mr. Scamander laughs with him, soft and bright eyed, gazing at Credence as if there isn't anyone else in the entire world.
Surely, Credence thinks. Surely now.
But Mr. Scamander just gets up and puts the money away.
On the fourth day, it's ready.
At dinner, they toast to Credence, and Credence can't stop smiling all evening. He can't remember the last time he's ever been this happy—or even if he ever has been this happy. Maybe not.
Tina catches him staring at Mr. Scamander, who's smiling and looking down. She jerks, and then Mr. Scamander jolts and glances up. Credence locks eyes with him and smiles, and Mr. Scamander looks so surprised he almost spills his water.
It's kind of mind-boggling to realize that he's just as kind and sweet and funny and awkward as Credence thought he was pretending to be.
He clears his throat, cheeks pink, and opens his mouth and closes it. "Congratulations," he manages, with full eye contact. It's something.
"You're right," Credence says to him. "It tastes terrible."
"We can mix it with jam and spread it over your toast in the mornings." Mr. Scamander always focuses up well when there's a problem at hand. "We can ask Jacob to cook it into one of his custard tarts."
Tina sighs.
Queenie shoots a quelling look at Tina.
"I'd eat it," Credence says. "As soon as we tell him about the wizarding world, we'll ask."
"Yes." Queenie beams at Credence, sitting straighter and smoothing her white blouse. "As soon as we do."
"If it happens." Tina frowns at her salmon and nudges it around her plate without eating any of it. "In the next two months."
Mr. Scamander ducks his head. "Opened a full can of worms, didn't I," he says. "I think it's rather awful to hear you two having a go at this again."
Credence pressed his lips together over a laugh. Mr. Scamander's both reluctant to hurt people and awfully blunt, and Credence never can predict which one will slip out. It's more endearing than it should be.
Queenie and Tina huff and snip at each other as siblings do, and settle down easily, bringing out the pastries for dessert.
It's a good night.
Credence isn't as tipsy as New Year's, but he feels a bit bubbly. Mr. Scamander watches him out of the corner of his eye as if Credence is the most fascinating, enchanting thing.
Credence falls asleep, warm content seeping into him like Mr. Scamander's magic.
Mr. Scamander never wakes him in the mornings.
Though Credence used to rise with the sun, his internal clock has dropped the habit of many years in the blink of an eye. He eats breakfast with Mr. Scamander, after the girls have gone to work.
Today when he wakes, Mr. Scamander's banging about loudly in the kitchen.
"What is it?" Credence leans against the table a bit, rubbing his eyes and blinking, his vision fuzzy the way it sometimes gets right after a long sleep.
Mr. Scamander's hair, as always, is a bit of a mess, and he has on his usual work clothes, wand-in-teeth again. "I'm trying to find something to make it taste a little better."
Credence is getting better at understanding what Mr. Scamander's saying when his wand is in his mouth. He's also come to the conclusion that this isn't something wizards normally do with their wands—it's just Mr. Scamander. He's certainly never seen Tina or Queenie hold their wands with anything other than their hands.
It's French toast today, butter and jam on the table, which means Queenie must've made breakfast—Mr. Scamander isn't that good at cooking.
"I'll spread it over my toast." Credence pulls the kettle off the stove and pours them two hot cups of tea, realizing suddenly that he knows just how Mr. Scamander likes it.
Goodness.
He doesn't even know how he likes it. He's been trying different amounts of cream and sugar, but he's not sure yet. But he puts a tiny bit of cream in Mr. Scamander's cup and no sugar, and he knows Mr. Scamander will like it just like that.
When he gestures for Mr. Scamander to sit and hands him the tea, Mr. Scamander's eyeing him curiously. He only ever looks more than a few seconds if he's curious, or incredibly earnest.
"Sometimes I truly can't tell whether or not you're joking," Mr. Scamander remarks, sounding delighted by it.
"I'm joking." Credence takes his seat across from Mr. Scamander and passes Mr. Scamander the jam—Mr. Scamander is a jam person. Credence goes for the butter. "I think I'll just take it all at once and wash it down."
"With hot tea?"
"I'd rather not burn myself." Credence prepares a piece of French toast and cuts it into large pieces, spreading a generous amount of butter on top. "If you'll excuse my manners, I'll just…" he gestures to his plate.
"Right, of course. That makes much more sense."
The potion is divided up into little vials, a dose in each, which Credence did himself, grateful to be able to contribute. They're all stoppered with a cork, about two tablespoons of thick gray-green liquid inside.
Credence tips it back.
It goes down much slower than water, because of its consistency, and it tastes horrible. It tastes like what Credence might imagine mud to taste like, or perhaps deeply polluted mud. He can't taste the banana, that's for sure. It's so incredibly bitter and vile, he thinks he's in real danger of throwing up.
He stabs the French toast hurriedly, incredibly grateful he cut them up in preparation—smart, very smart—and shoves the piece in his mouth. He doesn't even really try to chew. He's just trying to get it to the back of his throat as fast as possible.
"Oh boy." There's a none-too-gentle jolt of the wooden table, and then there's something cold and smooth pressed into his hand. "Milk. Drink."
Credence does.
It helps the French toast and smooths over all the other tastes in his mouth as long as he's drinking it. When the glass is drained, they come back, but much dimmer.
He takes deep breaths and wipes his mouth. He eats more French toast and douses it in maple syrup.
"That bad?" Mr. Scamander leans over him, picking up the empty vial and grimacing, watching the residue on the sides slide slowly, sluggishly around. "Some are worse than others."
Mr. Scamander just knows more than Credence about magic—it never occurred to Credence until now that he hadn't tried this potion. Credence knows how it tastes, and Mr. Scamander doesn't.
It's an interesting thought.
It makes him feel… he doesn't know what it makes him feel. Magical in his own right, he supposes.
A participant rather than a visitor.
Credence flexes his fingers and tries to think about holding Mr. Scamander's hand, envisioning their fingers linking and the brush of Mr. Scamander's calloused palm. He remembers the building warmth of Mr. Scamander's magic, like the sun breaking through the clouds.
And he can feel it—his own magic rising to the surface of his skin, as if the tide has come in, just a trickle of it. But it's there without exploding through him in an uncontrollable rush, at his calling.
He opens his eyes, and Mr. Scamander is right there, still standing by him with the vial in his hand, staring at Credence with wide, wide eyes.
Or, staring at Credence's hand.
Credence's fingertips are glowing, a blue-ish white, the same color of a Lumos charm.
Credence looks back up at Mr. Scamander, who's leaning down, closer to Credence's hand, closer to Credence. He's forgotten to shave again, and Credence would remind him, but he's forgotten how to speak.
"I've never seen anyone like you before," he murmurs quietly, voice full of wonder. He says it as if it's something he'd thought he'd gotten used to, but hasn't. Unsurprised and awed at once.
Credence hears the way he says it and forgets how to breathe.
Mr. Scamander glances at Credence's lips.
Credence watches him.
Mr. Scamander blinks, and clears his throat and casts a Warming Charm on Credence's tea, which hasn't actually gone cold yet.
He still doesn't do anything.
NewtNewt dedicates himself to finding something that will make the potion taste better. The problem is, he doesn't know how it does taste.
After a few miserable trials over a few days, he eventually suggests taking it down with a spoonful of straight maple syrup and being done with it.
This is not a serious suggestion, nor is it a particularly good one, but it must be a pretty terrible-tasting potion—Credence never did answer him when he asked, but Credence was never a complainer—because he tried it anyway.
"This is much better," Credence says immediately, his face twisting into a grimace as he swallows. His Adam's apple bobs rapidly as he follows the spoonful with milk. Newt never really realized how fast two months was until Credence's Adam's apple showed up. "That was a good idea."
"It wasn't too sweet?" Newt jumps up and opens the cabinets quickly, searching for something like maple syrup, but less sugary.
He hears Credence laugh behind him—Credence's laugh never fails to make his heart skip in his chest. "It doesn't need to be perfect, Mr. Scamander."
"Oh, I wish you'd call me Newt."
There's a beat of silence.
There's flour, sugar, oil, butter. Essentials. The maple syrup and jam are on the table (it's pancakes this time) and… well, there's molasses….
"We could give you molasses," he suggests, turning with the bottle in his hand. He pauses.
Credence is sitting there, his forearms resting on the edge of the table, his elbows off the table politely, staring at Newt again. It's not really a… a stare. It's this really, really intense gaze. Newt would give his right arm to know what goes on in Credence's mind when he's looking at something like that.
He swallows again. His Adam's apple, up, down. "Newt," he says. He hasn't looked away.
Newt.
Something flutters in Newt's stomach. His brain has left him completely. "Yes," he says. "That's my name."
Credence laughs. "What's it short for?"
"Newton. Newton Artemis Fido Scamander." Newt can't stop smiling. "Newt is fine. Newt is good, actually. I like hearing you say Newt."
"Newt," Credence repeats, serving himself more pancakes. "Newt."
He's so at home, Newt realizes, watching him. He serves himself food and takes seconds and laughs and interrupts and almost never says sorry for completely excusable things anymore. He goes weak with a sudden wave of happiness and has to lean against the counter.
Credence is so stunningly resilient and capable and unbelievable, and he's sitting here, eating pancakes with Newt.
"What?" Credence's fingers flit to his jawline, which has become a bit more defined, and then to his Adam's apple, as if he can't stop feeling it, and Newt realizes he's been staring.
He flushes and focuses on the pancakes. They're good pancakes, especially with jam—everything's good with the right jam—and they probably deserve to be eaten by someone who's paying attention to them. "It's nothing, really, I was just thinking—you're admirably skilled at adaptation, do you know that?"
Credence raises his eyebrows. "Adaptation?"
Merlin, save him. Adaptation? Really, Newt?
Newt bites his lip. "You know, it's just… well you have this way of approaching things that you're afraid of or reluctant to engage with and you just—like with magic, you just go head first. With the… with the Obscurus you obviously had a very complicated, hurtful relationship with your magic, and you could have run away from it but you were very adamant about getting Gridelwald—Graves, to you, I suppose—to teach you.
"With your sex, you know, you—you didn't really feel comfortable with being yourself either, because you thought being yourself was wrong, and—well, you're here, aren't you?" Newt waves a hand towards Credence's more angular face, the jagged hair that Queenie has offered to cut, and Credence's male shirt and trousers.
"And with living in this new environment, with Queenie and Tina and I, we live in the complete opposite sort of fashion to what you're used to, and you're able to fit right in—I mean, it's admirable, it really is—"
"Mr. Scamander," Credence interrupts. There he goes, interrupting. He only interrupts when it is admittedly a very good time to interrupt—when Newt's clearly going to just keep going otherwise. It's encouraging to see the way he asserts himself with confidence. "Are you evaluating my adjustment to relocation?"
"Well—" Newt pauses. "No. Yes. I am not."
Credence's eyes are bright with amusement as he leans forward, cleaning up his plate. "I'm just wondering."
Newt hands over his own plate and lets Credence wash the dishes because he seems to like it, and there's something a bit soothing about watching him work so rhythmically. The morning is cloudless and the rooftops that they can see out of the window sparkle with fresh snow in the midmorning sunlight, bouncing off the shiny wet plate in Credence's hand every so often.
Mornings, Newt decides, are quite nice.
"I'm not so good with humans," he concedes. "I suppose I look for the same sort of patterns in people as I do in creatures, but we're more similar to those creatures than you might think."
Credence dries the plate and sets it on the rack, then picks up Newt's plate and flicks the water on again, his sleeves rolled to his elbows. The hair on his arms is a touch thicker than it was a week ago, and plastered flat against his skin because of the water. "Tell me about your work?"
Newt's heart jumps, and he opens his mouth to launch into a quick explanation of why his creatures matter—just an overview, mind—when he stops. "Ah…."
There's a lot of context he's used to wizards having that Credence doesn't have.
And there's a lot of interest—that is, any interest at all—that Credence has that most wizards don't have.
So he doesn't need to jump into a defense immediately, or convince Credence to listen to him, or any of that. He just… has to explain what he does.
Because Credence wants to know.
"I'm not sure where to begin, really." He hands Credence a fresh dry dish towel and watches Credence dry off his forearms and fold his sleeves back down. "No one really asks me questions like that."
"Tell me about your work?" Credence repeats. "No one asks you about your work? That's all people over the age of twenty-five talk about."
Newt laughs and follows Credence back into their room. "You're twenty-six, and I hardly hear anything about your work."
Credence pulls the curtains open as Newt flicks a wand over his bed, setting his pink linens and then the thick winter comforter to rights. He doesn't have to fix Credence's bed: Credence is quite fastidious about keeping everything in order.
"I don't have a job as remarkable as yours." Credence's brow creases—he doesn't like his job, because it's the one time of day he has to pretend to be a woman. Why did Newt have to go and bring it up?
Newt laughs. "Remarkable is the nicest way I've heard someone put it in a while."
The laugh doesn't work. Credence seems to enjoy making Newt laugh (unless it's just wishful thinking, perhaps) but this time, he only frowns harder. "People don't like your job?"
"It's not… widely respected, you might say. They think it's a bit of a joke." This sounds sad and disparaging—not exactly the impression Newt's going for. "It's not—it's not a joke. I mean obviously I don't think it's a joke, because it's my career, but I… no one really does this. Not like I do; it's not profitable. So they all think I'm a bit stupid."
Credence looks downright upset now. Newt is not doing this very well. "I don't think it's stupid. Maybe I don't know anything about what your creatures are like or what you do with them, but I've gathered that you're saving them and taking care of them, and that's…" he trails off. "Not many people would do that. Especially if it doesn't pay well."
Newt feels heat crawl up his neck. "Well I find that a great many of my fellow wizards are greatly misinformed, or at the very least, educated through a very biased lens about these creatures, and they aren't disposed to be very empathetic towards them."
Usually, this is when they'd both sit on Credence's bed, side by side, and share magic. But now…
"That's what your book is for?" Credence wiggles his fingers, and—there. His fingers have gone a blue-white again. "I… I think I'll practice this on my own today."
"Right, of course." Right. That makes sense. The point is that Credence is meant to be able to do this on his own. It wouldn't make sense if Newt was just making Credence dependent on him for his magic to cooperate. "And—ah, yes. That's what my book is for. Changing perceptions. Hopefully."
Credence smiles, this small smile that melts Newt's heart completely. "We can still do it together if you want to," he offers, and his smile is almost cheeky. He's going to kill Newt. He's going to be the end of it all.
"Oh!" Newt looks quickly to the clock on the wall, which has the time on it, whatever time it is. "I think I should really—go. To. To the—places I should go to." His face is probably bright red.
"Alright," Credence doesn't look the least bit convinced. Newt wouldn't be either.
"Okay."
"Alright."
"Well, I'm going to—"
"Mr. Scamander—" Credence is leaning forward on his elbows to look down at Newt. "Newt…"
Newt stops, all but his head and shoulders already in the case, turning awkwardly on the ladder to look up at Credence. He suppresses the urge to ask Credence to say his name again. That would be weird. That would be weird.
"Could I see your book sometime? Or only when it's finished?"
Could I see your book sometime?
Newt almost falls off the ladder.
Could I see your book sometime?
Credence speaks about it completely seriously, not the way Theseus says it, laughing. Let me see your book, Newt, come on. Where is it? Or his parents, who ask when is it getting published? if they say anything at all.
"You don't have to." Credence's voice breaks through Newt's thoughts, and Newt realizes he's been silent for a while. "I mean, it's unfinished, and I understand if you don't want anyone to see it yet or if—"
"No!" Newt interrupts quickly, "No, no, not at all, I just—yes! Yes, please read it! I'd love for you to read it! I'd be so happy if you read it! I'll go down and get for you right now, shall I?"
Credence stares at him, dark eyes wide, mouth a little bit open. "Uh… yeah, yeah, of course."
"I'll go do that!"
Newt hurries down the ladder, cursing the way he made it, a thick rod of wood with small platforms on either side as if meant to slow people down when they go in. He almost falls off the ladder a couple of times.
"Accio Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them!" he casts. There's a muffled thump, and then another.
The door is closed—oops. Newt flicks his wand and throws open the door, letting the book fly in. He thinks he sees a page flutter to the floor on the way.
He almost falls off the ladder, then, too, because the book comes hurtling towards him and strikes him in the chest so hard his back hits the ladder with a thump.
There's a sort of crashing, and he thinks maybe the book knocked a shelf or two on its way. For a moment he's nervous, but then he catches sight of the gleam of dried black beans scattered across the floor—if it was the bean rack, nothing important fell.
He rushes back up the ladder and throws open the suitcase, coming face to face with Credence.
"Hello," he greets Credence brightly. "I have it right here."
He holds out the book to Credence. Credence reaches for it carefully, as if he's afraid it will fall apart.
It's all marked up, ink stains in the corners of some of the pages and odd sorts of stains on the cover, too, from venom or venom antidotes, or blood. Newt has lost track of them. The cover is nicked, too, all over, which Newt likes to think gives the texture of the cover character, and Theseus likes to say means it's beat up and its time has come. The margins are full and the sketches are half-finished, barely started, or shaded and colored to intricate detail at random. The length of the entries vary, and some pages have more pages stuck to them because he ran out of space in that area of the notebook.
And of course a few of the pages are falling out.
Newt's never thought of it much before, but it looks a bit of a mess. A lovely, interesting mess, but a mess all the same.
"It's… it's actually quite comprehensive," Newt tries to explain, letting go of it after making sure Credence has a good hold of it. "It's… well, I mean, it's not all put together the way a book would be, but it's not out of order, mostly. So all the sections are relatively organized. Their effects on humans… see… and the really important part—this rating of how dangerous they are, and I try to explain why, and then…"
He's talking and talking and talking.
Credence is paging carefully through the notes, his eyes catching on the sketches and his fingers sometimes tracing a sentence or a scribbled note. He does it with interest and curiosity, completely void of assessment. "And then they'll understand them more," Credence finishes for him. "And they'll know that they're dangerous for preventable or avoidable reasons."
He's on the page about the Wampus Cat, which notes that the Native Americans have lived in relative harmony with the species for years and have even formed bonds with them and obtained hair for their wand cores.
"Yes, exactly." Newt could spend the rest of his day just standing here, half in-half out of his case, watching Credence read through his messy notes with his slightly-sullen, serious expression, mouthing a word or two here and there.
Credence looks up from the page on Lethifolds, his eyes solemn. "Thank you for letting me see this," he murmurs. "I mean…" he runs his finger down the deep gouge left by an over-aggressive, young Acromantula. "I feel like this is special."
"It's my life's work," Newt says matter-of-factly.
He probably shouldn't have said that—it sounds awfully sad that his life's work can all fit into this little book. He's nearly twenty-nine, for Merlin's sake. But it's true.
Credence holds it in his hands… maybe not like it's fragile. More like… more like it's precious. "This is incredible," he whispers. "You did all of this research?"
Newt has to take a breath before he can figure out how to use words again.
Incredible, Credence said.
"I had to do most of it. Some historical accounts I had to track down and interview witnesses, and some basic things are known, but you'd be shocked how little we know about these guys. Most of them are just observations."
Credence breathes in, shaky. "And you're twenty-nine?"
"Twenty-eight."
"God," Credence whispers. Newt can hear it. He ducks even lower over the book, turning it a little to read a tight, sideways scribble. His black hair falls over his forehead, the slightest bit of a wave to it. "God."
Newt might have to climb out of the suitcase and sit on the floor, his knees are so weak. He might have to never look at Credence ever again, or it will drive him insane, how badly he wants to kiss him.
"If it—if you don't need this down there…" Credence hesitates and traces the cover of the book before looking up at Newt. "Could I read it? I can give it back when you come back up for lunch?"
Newt grips the side of his case tightly. He's probably dreaming. "You can keep it until you're finished."
He shouldn't have suggested that; Credence probably just wants to skim it, and now he'll feel burdened and obligated to read it through.
But if that's how Credence feels, he doesn't show it.
In fact, he lights up, letting out a surprised laugh, his fingers tightening around the book. "Do you mean it?"
Newt does not know how to deal with this situation in any way. "The fact that you even want to read it makes me sort of wildly happy, so, I—please do. Read it. If you like."
Something tugs at his leg, clawing at his trousers. It skitters up his body—
Oh, Merlin, he left the door open to his shed, didn't he?
The Niffler pokes his head out over the edge of the case, gunning for escape.
"Oh—don't you dare—" Newt puts his wand in his mouth and grabs the Niffler right around the middle of his body. This is not an easy thing to do; the Niffler's fur is sleek and slippery, and the Niffler wriggles in Newt's grasp, his little feet scratching at Newt's hands.
Credence jumps back a little—the Niffler is right in his face, chittering loudly. This… this is probably the weirdest thing… Helga help him, Newt's going to die of embarrassment.
But Credence sets the book beside him on his bed, still handling it very carefully, and leans forward curiously. He seems entertained by the way Newt struggles to keep a hold of the Niffler.
"What's this one?" he asks, keeping a safe distance.
The Niffler kicks especially hard, and Newt wobbles. There are coins on the bed stand beside the lamp, silver American coins beside American bills that Credence earned at work yesterday, and the Niffler must be able to tell that Newt's losing his grip.
Credence jumps off the bed. His hand shoots out and grabs him firmly by the elbow. He's laughing.
Credence's laugh is not helping Newt's ability to stand. He wobbles harder.
Credence's hand loosens.
"No—" Newt's wand clatters to the floor when he talks, and Newt almost lets go of the Niffler to grab it automatically. "Please don't let go, I think I'm likely to fall…"
"Alright." Credence grips Newt's elbow tighter obediently, kneeling to steady himself against the ground as Newt tries to steady himself. "What do I do now?" Credence reaches out his other hand. He holds it awkwardly under Newt's other elbow. Not touching him, just hovering there.
"That's a good question, which I wish I had an answer to." Newt starts easing his arms back, which encourages the Niffler's wiggling. Still, he's bringing his hands closer to the opening of the suitcase.
Credence is moves with Newt very well, his hand firm around Newt's bicep and the other still on his elbow.
"You're quite good at helping," Newt observes. "Thank you."
Credence holds the edge of the case, watching the distance between Newt's hands and the opening of the case and the speed at which the Niffler is slipping from Newt's hands with apprehension. He's leaning very close to do it, his face really rather close to Newt's. His eyebrows are furrowed in concentration, and his bottom lip is caught between his teeth.
The Niffler chitters.
"Alright," Newt murmurs, "Easy…" he leans back against the ladder, well-supported by Credence's hand. "Perfect. Or at least, good enough. Let go."
Credence does.
In one smooth movement, Newt presses back harder against the ladder for balance and turns just enough to drop the Niffler back into his case.
Credence's hand darts out and grabs at him, before he realizes Newt isn't losing his balance. "What—"
There's a thump, and then offended chittering and the clicking sounds of little claws.
"Is he alright?" Credence asks, peering over the edge of the suitcase worriedly. His hair is a bit long, falling over his forehead and curling at the back of his neck. "How far down is that? It sounded like a long fall."
"He's a bit like a cat." Newt settles his footing for good this time, but it's still disappointing when Credence draws his hand back, realizing Newt doesn't need it. "He usually lands on his feet. He's a bit evolved to brush off falls like that—his species is rather reckless, and makes a lot of leaps they don't always land, so they're constantly falling and getting hit and stepped on. They're harder to hurt than they appear."
Credence lets out a breath and steps back, pushing his hair back from his forehead with a brush of his hand. "Was it dangerous?" he asks.
Newt pauses. He grips the side of his case again. "No," he answers, "The Niffler only wants shiny things—coins, buttons, glass, jewels… it's not particularly antagonistic, aggressive, or capable of causing harm aside from inadvertent chaos."
He's barely aware of what he's saying.
Credence confirmed that the Niffler was alright before even asking whether the Niffler was a dangerous creature.
A warm, rushing feeling bursts inside his chest.
Bugger, he really should've gotten out of the case to begin with. He's not sure if he'll ever be steady around Credence, not if Credence keeps being like this. He'll have to find alternatives to walking.
Helga help him.
"I have to go feed my creatures, I reckon," Newt says quickly. "There is—there is actually a schedule they're used to me following, and at this rate I'll never get to them."
Credence's eyebrows crease again, his mouth turning down, but he shuffles back to the bed, smoothing the covers before sitting down and picking up the book. "See you for lunch, then."
Newt hurries away.
It's not a big deal, being in love.
He's probably not even in love.
He tries to convince Pickett of this, muttering, but Pickett is uninterested in his life.
"Pickett." Newt scoops up the little bowtruckle and waits for him to wave goodbye to his new Bowtruckle friends. "I have a job for you. How would you like to sort through the different colored beans I spilled on the floor?"
Pickett wiggles his green, twig-like fingers and bobs.
"You know—I really don't think I'm actually in love with Credence," Newt continues. "He's just… well admittedly he's a really pleasant and caring fellow, and he's very attentive and helpful, which I think is why I pay so much attention to him. That's just why I feel like this! Because Credence is the one I've been spending ninety percent of my waking hours with, it only makes sense. And I want him to be alright, so of course I have to look out for him."
He carries Pickett over to the shed, turning on the light as he pushes open the door.
"And he's staying with me… when did he come back to his body? Early December, I believe. What is it—what day is it today? I don't—I can't be in love with him already—"
Pickett covers his ears.