His Tina is the fallow field, the welcome embrace of nighttime.
She is snow and cool rain, and being in her presence tempers the fire that burns within, banking the coals and leaving them to shimmer. His annoyance with the entire situation is at odds with the fact that she is, in her own drab way, remarkably like him. He can't hold that against her. Not when he recognizes her passion and matches it with his own.
She brings them to The Blind Pig to visit a potential informant. He may have just saved their lives, but he's starting to think that she has saved his heart—so it's no surprise when her clothes Transfigure and he's struck dumb in wonder. The look they share, equal parts apology and fragile hope, leads him to realize she understands his discomfort implicitly.
In the low light of the club, Tina glows. She is moonstone skin and Stygian eyes and raven-wing hair, vibrant against a backdrop that is rendered gray and gray and gray. Her skin, white as a snow-covered field, implores him to touch and explore. The red of her lips entices him to dip in and drink of her, to discover if she is as cool as she appears. Controlling his expression costs him, and he knows his stoicism bewilders Tina—but he refuses to profane her, so he keeps his eyes carefully away for both their sakes.
She hasn't offered herself to him yet, but the subtext is in every gesture; he is confident she will, and he is a patient man.
His time spent in London is an indeterminable test of his patience. Being around Tina had soothed him in a way no person before was able; separated from her now, he burns on the inside. The feelings aren't new, but the sense of urgency that accompanies it is, so he works like a man possessed to produce a printable copy of his book.
Between daily, sometimes hourly correspondences with his nominal bosses at the Ministry and myriad publishing houses, he scribbles and scrabbles at his notes and hammers away on his rusting typewriter. He stains his hand's black producing sketch after sketch and survives on little sleep and less food. Her name beats a steady refrain in the back of his head, and he can't allow himself to stop until his task is complete and he can go home.
(Pickett and Dougal gang up on him occasionally to force him to eat something more substantial than tea and biscuits. He puts up a token resistance, but when they are successful in wearing him down he eats like a man half-starved only to collapse into his cot for 14 hours. Then he wakes at dawn and the cycle begins again.)
Occasionally, there are nights when he simply cannot find another thing to say about the breeding habits of the Nundu, or further expand upon the properties of Swooping Evil venom. On those nights, he allows himself the luxury of resting. He prepares himself a bachelor's supper and settles before the hearth, armed with parchment and his favorite tea, and writes to Tina.
Though he doesn't realize it, he puts his heart into every stroke of his pen.
His Tina is the moon.
Pressed to her lunar curves, he finds succor for his yearnings. He glides over cool peaks and dark valleys as she draws him in and presses them together. She comforts and offers sanctuary until he is helpless but to accept, slaking himself at her well. She gives and he takes and takes and takes, drinking her in until she no longer quenches but feeds. Their shared alchemy ignites and consumes until it cannot be contained and he is released, pouring into her—and she accepts and welcomes him. Then it's over, and they are reprieved.
He presses close and rejoices in being home.
Author's note: You can find me on Tumblr (username: katiehavok) if that's your thing. I would recommend seeking me out there—it's the best place to find me if you wish to keep track of my works, and I always accept prompts and requests for Newt/Tina and Newt/Queenie. Thanks, as always, to Kemara for beta-reading and general encouragements.