There's an accident at work, and a customer spills tea all over Credence's apron. Credence has to change aprons.
Someone in the corner starts looking at him weird, and his hand automatically flits to his Adam's apple—he can't stop feeling it, over and over, the way it juts out from his neck. It's kind of incredible.
Getting fired….
Less incredible.
His employer is not sure what's going on, but Credence is getting careless and clumsy and unfocused.
This isn't… untrue.
Credence's mind is preoccupied with the careful way Mr. Scamander—Newt sketches his creatures, and Newt's cramped, loopy scrawl, disproportionately tall and thin, like the man himself. Perhaps he isn't applying his mind to serving out tea and biscuits as he should be. This is how the tea mishap happens, after all.
And he has gotten clumsy. He's just… not so used to the proportions of his body.
His hips angled just a touch differently, the way his body mass seems to have slowly traveled from his hips to his waist and from his chest to—actually, he's not sure where. He does things with more force than he means to, and misjudges things like just how far his fingertips are from the sugar bowl, as if he's in one of his adolescent overnight growth spurts.
All things considered, he's pretty sure this is the most wonderful reason he could ever be fired for.
"You aren't unhappy?" Newt asks the next day, when Credence doesn't go to work, and Newt asks why. "I know you like helping, and you wanted a job."
Credence wanted a job because he didn't want to be in Newt's debt out of fear, and now he just wants to pay Newt back because the man deserves it. "I like having things to do," Credence admits. "Especially if I don't have to focus on it. But I really only enjoy being helpful because…"
Why does he enjoy being helpful? Is he a helpful person? Is it because he was always doing something for someone every minute of his day at the Second Salem? Is it because he wants to be too valuable to throw away?
Credence doesn't know how to finish that sentence. "It's soothing," he explains finally. At least that statement is true. "I'll just look for a new job."
Newt nods. "Of course, this is New York." He smiles.
It's impossible to look away from Newt's smile. It's so exactly Newt. Awkward and lopsided and almost unsure, like if you didn't know him, you might think he's ashamed of smiling and has quickly let it drop—but no, that's just the way Newt smiles. It's a hummingbird that hovers just for a moment and then flies away as soon as you spot it.
Credence knows Newt notices his stares, but he can't stop staring anyway. Credence is just—Credence is prisoner to this feeling. There's no escaping it, there's no hiding from it.
Tina's taken to kicking him under the dinner table sometimes, too, at dinner.
It's only then that he realizes he's been staring for upwards of five minutes at the way Newt's head falls forward instead of back when he laughs—unless he's a little unimpressed with someone's conduct, at which point he draws his head back to express fond exasperation. He's currently employing this towards Tina's question about how he's getting on with his book.
"Fine, thank you. It isn't the kind of progress you make day by day. It's rather a project." Newt's eyes are bright, the way they always get when he talks about his book.
Credence almost wants to read it as slowly as he can. He can savor it, that way. Savor the joy it brings Newt. If he reads it slow enough, he can bring up something he just read that day for weeks and weeks without running out.
"Oh, you're writing a book?" Jacob grins over at Newt. "I'm impressed. That's ambitious. What's it about?"
Newt opens his mouth and looks at Jacob, blinking for a moment. "Oh, just species of animals."
"Oh, wow," Jacob says. "Sounds smart."
Newt's cheeks go pink, and he ducks his head, his little smile peeking out. He's about to say something modest.
"I'm not really, most of it is a lot of fooling around while I try to learn things about them."
There it is.
"He is," Credence says. "He's really smart. And his research is quite well conducted."
"Oh—Credence—"
"It's true. He's just been given a hard time."
"Whatever I love about them, it's still true that I don't make much money off of it." Newt sighs and gives a resigned shrug.
"I'll provide for you, then." Credence smiles to show that he's joking. Only, he realizes as he says it, he isn't joking. He can't; he doesn't even have a job, but he meant it in spirit, and that's what stops the air in his lungs for several heartbeats.
He meant it.
Oh, help.
Newt might not even notice, because he's spluttering too hard.
"What is it you do?" Jacob asks him, and Credence remembers they were all in a conversation a moment ago.
He offers a sort-of smile. "I actually just got fired from serving tables about a week ago. I'm hoping I'll find some work soon."
Instead of looking awkward, Jacob brightens. "That's great! I mean, it's terrible that you got fired of course, but the bakery's opening in just a couple weeks and I could use a pair of hands!"
The world jolts yet again, though not as jarringly. Credence just got fired recently enough that that's just begun to really settle, and suddenly he has a job again?
"Are you sure you want me?" Credence runs his hand through his floppy, too-long hair. He hasn't felt quite right in his body in a very physical sense in a while. Unadjusted. Things are changing so fast. He wouldn't slow it for the world, but… it's a lot. "I'm—clumsy."
He's not, usually. He's had to stop doing some of the things he does about the house, like washing the dishes when Jacob comes around to dinner. He'll welcome stability when two months are over.
"Of course he does; he wouldn't offer if he didn't," Queenie jumps in, smiling gently at Jacob.
Jacob nods emphatically. "I don't have much money for the advertisement, and it's hard to get someone when I can't afford to put much in the paper or whatnot. And you're a mighty pleasant fellow, if I'm honest."
It still gives Credence a jolt to hear someone other than the Newt, Tina, or Queenie to refer to him as a man. A mighty pleasant fellow. He'll probably… "Will I work as a—as a woman?"
The witches and wizards grew up with this kind of thing apparently normal, which never fails to baffle Credence. What's even more baffling is how Jacob, a man still ignorant to the world of magic, swallows the announcement of Credence's sex with a smile, an impromtu toast to him, and not a cutting word to be found.
Fork pausing halfway to his mouth, Jacob considers. "No. You look a bit—" his eyes flicker over Credence as if just noticing him now. "You look a bit like a man, somehow. I don't know what it is. But you could pass as a man if you wanted to, in those clothes."
Credence is wearing the clothes he bought with Newt, as he does every hour of the day inside the Goldstein apartment. He really needs to pay Newt back for these. He's already paid Tina for the leech juice… sort of. Newt was right: conversions weren't reasonable. He paid what it would have been if the two currencies were proportional.
He could go to work in these clothes, essentially to pay for these clothes. It's an amusing thought.
"Or if it makes you uncomfortable, I mean, you don't have to." Jacob shrugs. "It doesn't matter to me, but I know it can be—unsafe."
Jacob isn't normal by general standards of non-magical society. Credence knows this. He's heard it and experienced it all the years of his life, and he doesn't mind hearing it one more time. It upsets Newt more.
"Unsafe?" he repeats. He turns to Credence. "Unsafe? How unsafe? I know they're not—I know they're stupid about it, and—"
"It's alright, Newt, really. There's nothing you can do about it."
"I can follow you around and make absolutely sure no one harms you," Newt argues. It's such a preposterous idea that it takes Credence a moment to realize Newt isn't making a joke.
"You will not," Tina says immediately. She's quicker than Credence; she can tell right away.
"You can't walk ahead of me and clear every single rock in my way," Credence agrees carefully. "You have your own path. You're being overprotective."
"I'm not—!"
"You are." Something in Credence's chest aches in the sweetest way. There are moments when Newt still seems a little bit unreal, and he knows he's not doing a very good job of keeping it off his face right now. "I couldn't be more grateful. I mean it. But I can't—I can't let you keep doing this."
They're lucky dinner's practically over now, and Tina can believably—if noticeably—get Queenie and Jacob to hand over their finished plates and excuse themselves to "get the dessert ready."
Credence picks at the last bits of food on his plate for as long as he can get away with, trying not to look at Newt. This is… not the sort of thing Newt is going to let slide easily, but Credence is going to take that job.
"What am I doing, exactly?" Newt's shoulders are pulled in, and he's fiddling with his own fingers almost rhythmically, what Credence has learned to be an agitated habit of his.
Credence sets down his fork; his plate is as clean as he'll be able to pick it. "I don't know."
Newt's mouth turns down, his eyes still fixed on his hands. "Am I supposed to not worry about you?" He flexes his hands, lovely and thin, freckled all over, and sets them flat on the table with a breath before looking up at Credence. "I—this shouldn't come as a surprise, really, because I—I—because of what I said about fancying men—and you. And—but—I know I'm generally not a worrier but you—Credence—what I'm trying to say is…" He hesitates. "I want to know that you're okay."
It's so incredibly impossible that someone like Newt could end up caring for Credence in the way that he does. Newt's cheeks are flushed and he leans back, looking back down at his hands as if suddenly realizing how close he'd leaned in, distress written into every line of his body: his posture, his expression, the way his blue eyes close when he swallows.
And this is all because of Credence.
"Mr. Scamander," Credence begins, weighing his words carefully. His heart beats in his throat, something cold building in his stomach. Fear. It's fear. He can't believe he's asking this of Newt. "What is it you do for your creatures?"
Newt's eyes dart up, his eyebrows drawing together for a moment. "Rescue, rehabilitate, release," he recites. "Unless they need long-term protection."
"You rescued me. You rehabilitated me. Do you think I need long term protection?"
Newt is silent for a beat. "I don't know if rescue is the right word. And I'm very sure rehabilitate isn't the right word either. You're not a rescue operation, not to me, not to anyone here. Release only applies if I'm—if you feel like I'm trapping you, which… Credence if I'm being too… too…"
Newt pushes his hand through his hair. It looks thick and soft, the curls jumping back into place as soon as they're free. Credence wants to reach out and run his fingers through them too, and if he did, maybe Newt would stop frowning.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to… I couldn't ever want to make you feel like… I didn't think—I never think—" Newt groans and buries his face in his hands. "I'm not even finishing my sentences, I'm just sorry. That's it! That's all! That's all I'm trying to say."
Credence waits for a moment.
And then two.
But Newt does not get angry at him, or call him ungrateful, or say see if I ever try to help you again. He doesn't inform Credence that he shouldn't expect or demand someone to do everything exactly as he wants it done—even though he shouldn't.
The fear drains away.
Credence is being ungrateful, but Newt doesn't say a word about it.
He says I'm sorry.
That's it.
That's all.
Credence wants so desperately to have Newt and kiss him and hold him and be held by him that he thinks it might break him.
"Don't be sorry," he whispers. He reaches out and touches the back of Newt's hand, wordlessly urging him to look up and take his hands from his face. "God, Newt, don't you dare be sorry. You're the first person in the world to care about me this much, do you know that? And everything you've done for me… I don't even know where to begin."
Newt's looking up now, his hands lowering a little. Credence doesn't move his hand away—now he's cradling Newt's hand in his own.
"You just have to let me do things on my own," he explains. "You've done so much for me that I can do things on my own, and… you do believe I can do it, don't you?"
Newt raises his eyebrows, letting out a soft laugh. "I think if we ever find something you can't do, it'll be the most surprising thing in my life."
"Thank you," Credence whispers.
Credence is distantly aware that dessert has probably been ready for a while, and the room is suspiciously empty, and very, very acutely aware that when Newt looks down to stare at their intertwined hands, his curls brush Credence's forehead.
"You'll be careful, won't you?" Newt presses. He knows how close they are; Credence can hear it in the softness of his voice. "I know working for Jacob is probably the safest you'll get, for now."
"Of course I will," Credence promises. He can hear Newt breathing. Look up. Look at me. "You know how much it means to me that you worry, don't you?"
Tell me again how you feel, Credence wants to say. I have a different answer.
But Newt's mouth just turns up, and he says, "I'm really not a believer in worrying. It's a bit amusing that when I do end up worrying, it's too much worrying." He sounds happy, and a bit proud.
His eyes are on Credence's lips. Credence stops breathing.
"Will you go as a man or a woman?" Newt asks, still murmuring.
Credence can't answer. Credence can't move. If he talks, he'll lose the quiet sounds of Newt's breathing, and if he moves Newt will stop staring at his lips.
After a moment, Newt glances up to meet Credence's eyes, his gaze such an electric blue it shocks a shaky breath out of Credence. Newt drops his gaze and bites his lip, brow furrowing.
"Sorry," Newt says, as if choking it out.
Newt gets up, and picks up his plate, and walks it over to the sink. Credence sits back in his seat, his heart pounding in his throat. He's trembling. From the loud clattering in the sink, he thinks Newt might be, too.
Newt's outlined by moonlight from the window, shining through his hair and making it look redder than usual. His hands clasp the edge of the counter. "Tina," he calls, a catch in his voice, "Tina, Queenie, Jacob, is dessert ready yet?"
Whispers that Credence can't make out erupt in the adjacent room, but after a moment, Queenie comes in, stopping halfway into the room. "Are you alright?"
Tina elbows her in the side, carrying a couple more plates and laying them on the table.
"Yes," Credence croaks. "I'll take the job, Jacob. And like this, if you don't mind."
No, he's not okay. He's going to burst, there's so much happening. He's fired and now he has a job and he can do it as a man, and he has this building feeling inside of him for Newt that he doesn't in any way know how to process yet, and—and he doesn't even know what he's supposed to think about the last few minutes, and Newt's upset and Newt's upset, and Newt, he's upset—
Oh no… a feeling Credence hasn't felt in a while is welling up in him, rushing like a ruthless, rising tide. He glances down quickly at his skin, pale and yellowish in the orange lamp-light. A thin trickle of black particles seems to rise from his skin. It's not enough to be visible to anyone else.
Yet.
"I actually—I think I should go to bed," he says.
Newt looks his way sharply, his mouth half-open, and doesn't say anything.
Neither does anyone else.
"Goodnight, everyone." Credence trips over his words. "Queenie. Tina. Jacob." Newt's still staring at him. "Um."
Newt looks so upset.
Credence doesn't know what to say to him. He shouldn't leave without saying something to him.
How do you say I love you?
"Newt," Credence says, and flees.
It's always easier to tackle the smaller things first, so that's what Credence does. He knows he won't be able to sleep until he thinks it all through, until he settles the hurricane in his mind.
Jacob first. It's easiest. He thinks about it as he pulls off his clothes, standing alone and bare in front of the wardrobe mirror. The routine calms him, coaxing the fluttering black tendrils reaching out of his skin back in.
He could pass as a man with relatively feminine features, if he dressed in the right clothes. His hips have slimmed a bit, his waist filled, his jaw firmer and his face slimmer. It's incredible how fast he's changed, and how much time is left. How much is still going to change.
He can do it. He can walk in there and be seen as a man by someone who doesn't even know him.
He can.
And then there's Newt. The way he looked at Credence and didn't look at Credence and all the wonderful, incredible things he said and the way he said them, and—he got so upset.
Credence didn't do anything, did he?
Did he?
And when Credence blurted out that he'd provide for Newt—there it is.
He can imagine it. He realized at dinner: he wants it.
He can imagine working and shopping for Newt and joining Newt in the case—whatever's down there. He'll give a coin to the Niffler. Newt will cook simple things, and Credence will clean and wash. Newt will work on his book and Credence will tell Newt about his day at work.
Newt will grab his hand and hold it.
He's still thinking about it when Newt comes in, staring up at the ceiling. He starts when Newt knocks his case against the bed with a rattle.
"Goodnight Credence," Newt says quietly. There's something soft and—almost unhappy about his voice. "Do you think it might be best if I take my case—I can move it to another room and sleep inside of it."
Credence sits up, shifting to the edge of his bed, and stares at Newt. "Why would you want to sleep in your case? I don't snore." He's sure he doesn't—Modesty always told him he slept so quiet you might think him a corpse.
Newt hesitates, looking down and fiddling a little bit with the handle of his case. It rattles. He hasn't set it down. "I get the feeling I make you uncomfortable." He pauses, a tiny crease at the corner of his mouth, another between his eyebrows—he's searching for words. Credence waits, something cold growing in his stomach. "I'm afraid I' e been acting… in ways that disrespect your—your wish that we don't have… anything… between us. I think perhaps I should move."
Oh.
God.
Credence jumps up from the bed. "You don't make me uncomfortable," he says quickly. God, what an understatement. He swallows, breath short, twisting the hem of his nightshirt.
Newt looks at him. He doesn't even seem to be breathing. His eyes catch on Credence's hands, twisting. He looks away. "I think I should sleep in the living room anyway."
"I'm not uncomfortable with you!" Credence catches his sleeve. "I'm not. Why are you convinced that I am?"
"Oh, well. Maybe you're not." Newt shrugs, his movements awkward, jerky. "I've never slept in my case, on a couch before. It'll be an experience."
Credence frowns, and he drops his hand from Newt's sleeve. "You're not convinced."
It's so quiet inside of the apartment, and dark. Jacob has gone home, Tina and Queenie are sleeping, as far as Credence knows, and he feels like he's shattering the inherent peacefulness of the night when he speaks.
"You don't have to convince me." Newt lifts his case in his hand. "I'm just… maybe you want some distance."
Newt thinks Credence wants distance.
Distance.
From Newt.
"So I do have to convince you." Credence stops at the doorway to their room and lets him go.
He will. One way or another, he'll show Newt that he doesn't want distance. He wants the opposite.
NewtIt doesn't take long to realize Credence is actually trying to convince him.
Actively.
It's not doing great things for Newt's sanity, or his heart, or any of his functions, really.
He touches Newt for any and every reason: to stop him from going out the door because he forgot his scarf, instead of just calling his name. To catch his attention when they're sitting side by side at the table. When he's washing the dishes, slowly because his body is changing too much for him to get used to it yet. Leaning over him as he reads through his notebook with Credence, pointing at the pictures, Credence pressed into his side.
He asks to share magic all the time.
"Do you have anything you're doing right now, Newt? Can we share magic?"
"Have you finished feeding your creatures? Can we share magic?"
"There's a moment before dinner, if you want to share magic."
"Can we share magic tonight? It helps me sleep."
He asks Newt right out if he'll come back to the guest room. He says Newt's breathing soothes him. Newt isn't sure how to refuse a request that blatantly expressed, so he goes back.
Credence starts and maintains long conversations with Newt, inquiring about the Niffler and the Nundu, and about which creatures from the book Newt has in his case. He asks where Newt has been, what he's done there, how he liked it, and which parts he didn't like.
He looks at Newt and smiles at him and laughs at his dry jokes.
He maneuvers around until they're close and then he smiles up at Newt, a little breathless.
On and on it goes.
Newt doesn't know what to do now. He would have to be blind to really stop noticing him like that—he can't stop wanting Credence.
He can't stop loving Credence. He doesn't know how.
It seems as if Credence is afraid of offending Newt. The speed at which he denies discomfort, the obvious discomfort.
And it makes horrible, horrible sense.
What an idiot he's been. He has so much power over Credence—of course Credence fears putting Newt in his place when Newt is staring, or when Newt almost kissed him.
Credence is only trying to appease him. Newt's convinced of it… for a bit.
After a while longer, as they near the midway point of Credence's time on the potion, he's not so sure.
It's possible Credence means it, he thinks—And now this.
Credence sits across from him at the breakfast table, Tina and Queenie once more at their respective jobs and Newt and Credence once more having a late breakfast. His face is flushed scarlet and his over-easy egg has been stabbed and the yolk popped all over his toast. He keeps poking at it.
"What is it?" Newt pushes the butter closer to Credence, in case he wants more.
The clock ticks in the corner. A bird chirps outside their window, hopping about on the snow-covered roof right outside.
Credence is uncomfortable again. At least he doesn't seem scared.
"I want to ask you something."
"Alright."
Credence pushes his hair back from his face. At this point, it's nearly to his shoulders, thick and black. A little bit of a wave, a shine to it, framing his face. "Later."
Later turns out to be kind of a while later.
Credence catches his sleeve as he comes in after dinner, ready to head into his case for a little bit more work before bed.
"I'm going to ask you," Credence declares.
He's lit the lamps instead of the usual evening candle in their room, making it feel almost like it's daytime.
"Ask away," Newt answers immediately. "Please."
Credence smooths over the hem of his shirt and sits on his bed, angling his body like an invitation. Newt joins him there, watching Credence's hands slide over his thighs, smoothing his trousers.
"It's about the potion."
Ah. Credence has all the doses; Newt doesn't. Newt's glad for it—one less thing Credence feels like is in Newt's hands. "Yes?"
Credence takes a breath. He taps his shoe. "How much will it change?"
There's a beat. "...Sorry?" Newt hesitates, turning a bit to look at Credence, whose ears are red. "I'm not sure I understand what you mean. A bit like this—" Without touching Credence, he moves his hand over Credence's jaw, his back, his waist and his hips. All the parts that have been changing and changing, and are still changing.
Credence's voice, too, has deepened, and his voice cracks now. "And—this?" Credence waves a hand… lower down. Below his waist. "Will I have—a—I didn't think it would be possible, but with my…" he gestures to his chest. "I don't know what to expect."
Oh, Merlin. Newt swallows hard. This is a very awkward question—but he's an adult! Whether or not he's in love or the most awkward human being on the planet is not part of the question. "Do you want… do you want a penis?"
A sound escapes Credence, and his hands fall into his lap. "I—I do." He clasps them.
"Then it will give you one."
"Like a man's?"
"Like a man's."
"And… what about what I already have?"
"It disappears—or is replaced, you could say. Unless—unless you want them both. Then they stay."
"God! I don't want them both." Credence looks as if he might die of mortification. Newt won't be far behind.
"Some do."
"Well, I just want to have—like yours." Credence's mouth opens and closes. "Not yours! Just. You know—"
"You'll have it. If that's what you want, you'll have it. That's what the potion does."
"Good. Thank you."
"Yes, of course."
They sit there. They sit there some more. Is it really February? It feels a bit hot for that. Credence has relaxed the slightest, his arm brushing Newt's—through clothes, but it still feels as if Newt's arm is on fire.
"Well, my creatures—"
"Yes, right." Credence's eyes brighten with amusement and he smiles up at Newt. "Thank you."
His cheeks are flushed. He chewed on his lip and now it's pink. He looks relieved to have the conversation over with, and happy.
Newt glances back at him as he's clambering into his case, and the way Credence is looking at him gives him pause. The lamp is only so bright, but he could swear there's something tender in his expression, a fondness.
Perhaps.
He visits the Nundu, kneeling and holding his hands out empty and palms-out until the Nundu lays down the spikes on his neck and nuzzles Newt. He's a bit rough, and almost knocks Newt off the ledge, but it just means he's very friendly—he's becoming well acquainted with the case, his habitat, and Newt.
Newt sits on the edge of the rock and he tips his head back to the magical illusion of the sky above them. On the air, sounds of his night creatures frolicking about and his day creatures settling in their nests for the night reach him, gentle and soothing, a natural lullaby.
The Obscurus swirls in its bubble.
The full moon is out, marking Credence's halfway point on the potion—one more month to go.
He drifts off, the moonlight against the back of his eyelids, still wondering what about what everything with Credence means.
Perhaps he's being an idiot, and Credence isn't pretending out of fear of losing his favor at all.
Or perhaps he's being optimistic and stupid.
Credence is once more unimpressed with his falling asleep in the case, though he doesn't get worried anymore; now it just results in a little bit of teasing that makes Newt's heart flutter.
And breakfast. Credence has cooked breakfast while Newt was down in his case, and it's good. He wonders aloud if Credence has learned this somewhere, and whether Credence has been quietly choking down Newt's mediocre food all this time without comment.
"It isn't bad," Credence objects, pouring out a spoonful of maple syrup. The bottle is getting low, but Queenie promised to buy another one today. "Really, you're not a bad cook."
Newt puts his plate in the sink and watches Credence tip his head back, swallowing hard, as quickly as he can to get the bitter potion and the too-sweet maple syrup out of his mouth. He drinks half a glass of milk next. His neck is thicker now.
"I'm not this good."
"I had to cook a lot of the food for the children," Credence says quietly, setting his glass down. "I had a lot of practice." He smiles, teasing. "Just like you're better than me at potions."
He glances to the cabinets, which are full and well-organized, full of normal Muggle dishes. On the top shelf, there's a row of cauldrons of different sizes. Most of them are pewter, but Credence's eyes go to the gold one, and he laughs quietly.
"Wizards are so strange," he murmurs, as if to himself. "I suppose that wasn't too much, relatively speaking?"
Newt rubs the back of his neck. "I'm not sure, really. I'm not sure how much it would be to a Muggle, but the gold cauldrons are more expensive than pewter."
Credence laughs again. "You don't say."
There it is again, that fond look in his eye, just on the side of tender. The way he looks at Newt. It's hard not to hope when he looks at Newt like that.
Credence rolls up his sleeves—the hair on his arms is thick and dark, and… bugger. Newt looks away and goes to grab a dishtowel. Credence lowers the dishes onto the air and Newt catches them with a flick of his wrist, whisking them dry and sending them away.
It's safer than taking it from Credence with his hands; he might drop the plate.
Afterwards, Credence sits with him on the edge of his bed and holds his hand out to Newt, and they share magic. No matter how many times they do it, it has a breathless feel to it, as if the room itself is full of magic, suspended in the air.
Credence's power is no longer like the crashing waves of the ocean against a cliff—it's still as wide and deep as the ocean, but it's calmed, sweeping and even, like the ebb and flow of gentle waves.
It is a world of wonder, no longer wracked with pain.
Credence's magic flows through him, curling around his limbs, as electric and bright as a fire and as gentle as a caress, careful as if cradling a treasure and bold as if there's no border between the places they touch at all.
As if he's not afraid of Newt, not one bit.
In the afternoons, he opens Newt's notebook and curls around him, pointing and murmuring, his head on Newt's shoulder.
He catches Newt's hand before Newt can go to turn the page when they're looking at the Erumpent, and the touch of his skin sends a rush up Newt's body as if they're sharing magic again. They're not. "Wait—I haven't seen this page before."
Newt laughs. Or at least, he tries to. He can feel the pulse of Credence's heartbeat where their sides press together. "Oh, this one's a trouble-maker. She escaped in Central Park a couple months back, and that was quite an ordeal. She chased Jabob across the frozen lake, and…" he's babbling again. "It wasn't dangerous, though. I think he may have fumbled some pheromones that made her a bit—excited."
He should stop talking.
"I had them out so I could entice her back into the case. I performed a mating dance to catch her attention, but I suppose that couldn't compete with a full vial—"
"Jacob has these."
Newt's so relieved Credence has cut him off at this point that it takes him a moment to realize what Credence has said. "Er—what?"
Credence reaches out, letting go of Newt's hand, which immediately feels cold. He pulls it back and sticks it in his pocket.
Credence points to the sketch Newt has made of the Erumpent, just lines and shading, no color yet. "In his bakery. He makes this sweet pull-apart bread shaped just like this… E-rump-ent…?"
Newt laughs softly, his stomach fluttering. "Erumpent. Jacob made bread like this? I'll have to visit you at work."
Credence doesn't repeat it; he just reads the page over. "Do you think he remembers?" He leans over and closes the book. This is when they go to bed, but Credence just puts the book on the bed stand and returns to Newt's side, leaning against him and clasping his hand, as natural as anything.
The air seems to still. Credence is looking up at him, sitting close on the bed, biting his lip.
Credence is catastrophic to Newt's sanity. He's gotten happier and happier over the past months. Excuse Newt's rehabilitation assessment again, but Credence has adapted with incredible speed and made himself comfortable.
Very comfortable.
And Newt is beyond delighted for him… he just feels distantly that perhaps all this confidence is coming off a tiny bit flirtatious.
He feels terrible for thinking it—obviously, Credence is just getting more at home, more familiar with everybody, more secure in his place here, less afraid. With that comes a comfortability with joking, teasing. Fluttering eyelashes here. Fond smiles there. A lot of touching. Looking.
Friends do that—look at each other and read books together and everything.
There's a stupid, hopeful voice in Newt's head that says maybe…. But he tries to ignore it as best as he can.
Newt looks down at their hands. Freckles and scars. He searches his mind—Credence is waiting for a response to a question, or something—right. "I think he remembers more than we thought he did."
Credence hums. His hair brushes Newt's shoulder. "Newt?" he murmurs, sounding almost as if he's asking for something, but he doesn't say anything else. As if he's unsure whether to ask.
Newt resists the urge to lean in and kiss him, his heart thumping against his chest. He resists his second, more rational urge to move gently away from Credence and give them a little distance. He just stays this way, looking back at Credence. "Is there something you need?"
Credence sighs. "No."
They dress without looking each other's way—they always do—and slip into their respective beds.
Credence rolls onto his side when he's under the covers, facing Newt from across the room. "You know you don't make me uncomfortable, don't you?"
Newt makes a very particular sound that can be interpreted as a negative, a positive, or unsure. Credence waits for a moment, and Newt gives in. "I… I suppose I do."
He thinks somewhere in there he changed his mind, but he only really realizes he believes it when he says it.
"You don't sound like you believe me." Credence pauses. The candle is out, and Newt can only see the silhouette of him in shadow. "I'm—I'm never more comfortable or more happy than I am when I'm with you."
Silence.
"Newt?"
Newt swallows. "Oh."
Newt isn't going to fall asleep for a while.
He's going to think about those words, and he's going to think about them some more, and he's going to play them over and over in his mind until he's got the cadence and breath of every syllable memorized.
"Well, I… I believe you now."
And he means it.
When he visits Credence at Jacob's bakery, he's somehow surprised to see the Erumpent. He believed Credence, of course, but it's still so strange to see them in… bread form.
It's a very nice bakery—glass cases full of different breads and pastries, both fantastical creatures and normal-shaped items as well. It's charming and well-lit, and the creature items are selling like hot cakes.
And Credence is behind the counter, smiling, ringing people up. He looks so happy, so at ease, Newt stops for a minute and just watches him, his heart full enough to burst, until the person behind him coughs quietly, and Newt hurries forward.
Credence looks up from the box he's sealing with a shiny gold sticker and catches sight of Newt. He lights up. Newt remembers, once again, that he should not try to walk around a smiling Credence. He steadies himself against the counter.
"I just thought I maybe—wanted to see you here, and see how you were doing," he says. "How are you doing?"
Credence's cheeks flush, and his smile widens. "Hello! This is a surprise. But not an unwelcome one."
Newt's heart skips in his chest, his mind going blank for a moment, caught on the way Credence's tone has dipped into teasing. "Er—I—Thank you. I mean, I'm glad of that."
The person behind him coughs again, loudly, and Newt feels heat rush to his cheeks.
"Can you get me an—oh, ah—" He's forgotten to look at the options; he hasn't been able to take his eyes off of Credence long enough to. In his defence, Credence is rather distracting in his work clothes. "An Erumpent?"
Credence's lips press together, as if he's holding back laughter, and tells him, "That's not what they're called," but he fetches one for Newt and puts it in a bag, folding it nicely, quickly, with practiced ease. The same way he washes dishes, cleans, the way he bottled up his Transitioning Potion into vials. Efficient. "Here. That's fifty-nine cents." He speaks very slowly.
Newt has to laugh. He's not familiar with the coins yet, though he vaguely remembers them, and he has to check them for their numbers a couple times. "Bugger," he says, and, "Sorry. Wait a moment."
There's the nickel—five—and four pennies. And the half dollar.
"Good job." Credence hands over the bag and scoops up the coins, his expression fond. "Don't eat it where she can see you."
It isn't until Newt's out the door, weaving through the streets, that he realizes Credence meant the Erumpent.
He laughs out loud. "I won't," he says, and a man walking by clutching his briefcase gives him a funny look.
Newt's probably grinning like an idiot, too.
Credence is going to be the death of him.