i rarely revise what i write for this stuff so forgive me the mess. --
1.
It was nothing. Under the half-light of the sun dyeing the sky in the horizon, Credence watched as Newt Scamander turned his head in an attempt to evade the President’s gaze. She was startlingly beautiful, lovely in the manner of old trees with deep roots, and despite the fact they were more or less of a size, Newt seemed smaller, almost, swallowed up by his coat. He wasn’t wearing the scarf, that striped one that made his hair look so fair, and so the movement revealed the long line of his neck, the delicate shadow of his throat. The freckles continued undisturbed, Credence noticed. He wondered if―
Oh, he thought. His hand attempted to close on thin air, and he only realised when his nails dug into the meat of his palm. He hid the hurt hand in the pocket of his trousers. Ma’s last punishment hadn’t healed yet, and he was certain he could feel a drop of blood trickling out from between his fingers. He didn’t want them to see, the―the wizards. He didn’t want them to think he was any stranger than he already was.
“Mr. Scamander,” said the lady President. One of her brows rose in a perfect arc. “We’re risking a great deal with this, as you are no doubt aware. I trust you will behave responsibly, then.”
Mr. Scamander―no, he had said to call him Newt, hadn’t he? And for once Credence wanted to be daring, he wanted―there was no harm in merely thinking it, surely. It wasn’t disrespect. Newt shuffled from foot to foot and ran a hand through his hair, which stood out every which way in an artlessly charming mop.
“I’m very responsible,” said Newt, finally.
The President looked pained. “Go on,” she said, as if resigned. “Off with you. Good luck, Mr. Scamander. I hope we never have a reason to meet again.”
One corner of Newt’s mouth twitched like it wanted to smile. Credence jerked his eyes away. Filthy. He was having filthy thoughts. That was no good. Mr. Scamander―Newt―he was being terribly kind, accepting to put his reputation on the line for someone like Credence: penniless, untalented, appallingly stupid, and… a disaster even when it came to things like magic.
So. He had to be good. It was just a favour, that was all. Mr. Scamander was a good person.
Newt was a good person.
“Well,” said Newt to Credence, who jumped a little because he had been rather determinedly staring off into space. “Well, I guess that’s it, then. We’re free to go.” That little twitch again, as if he wanted to smile. Credence watched him from the corner of his eye as Newt shuffled some more, patting the pocket of his coat―it seemed to move a little after he took his hand away, which made Credence stare―and then rummaging through his pockets. He found what he wanted a moment later: a cookie bagged in delicate yellow paper, tied neatly with a ribbon. “It’s for you,” said Newt, reaching out a bit spastically. Credence waited a beat before he accepted it with his unharmed hand. “From Queenie. Well, actually Jacob made it, only she went and bought it. He’s got a bakery, you see.” Another little twitch. “He’s doing very well.”
Credence stared at the cookie.
“You can eat it,” said Newt helpfully. “If you―unless you don’t like cookies?”
“I like them,” said Credence. His voice sounded strange―but of course, because he’d been screaming and crying in an unsightly heap for ages while Newt attempted to soothe him. He’d been graceless about it, Credence recalled, and yet he more than made up for it with a kind of disarming sincerity.
Was it any wonder, that all those animals… Newt had said he was a magizoologist, that he took care of hurt and lost animals and helped them, and that he was studying them so he could write a book, to help people understand them. The look on his face had brightened with a vivacious intensity that turned him from sort of funny-looking if adorable to absolutely charming. He seemed very invested in it, Mr. Scamander did.
Credence supposed it would be peculiar to voice his wish: he wouldn’t mind being an animal at all, if it meant someone like Mr. Scamander would mind him. If it meant he could go around in the chest pocket of Newt’s coat, because he was kind, and a bit skittish, and brave… and… and Credence…
He took out his hurt hand and then he pulled the tiny ribbon. There was some awkwardness, when Credence didn’t know what to do with it, but Newt rescued him by plucking it out of his hand with an offhand “somebody’ll want to play with it, I expect,” and so Credence removed the paper―it felt achingly thin, enough that a bit of carelessness would tear it, and… he wanted to keep it, just because―and examined the cookie.
It was… non-traditional.
“Jacob made it,” said Newt again, blurting it out like the silence was getting to him.
Credence split the cookie in two―a sharp point―a limb?―dug into his wound, so he kept that part and offered the clean half to Newt, who accepted it with a proper smile: it began in his eyes and then flooded the rest of his face like an underground river.
The sun was warm. They ate.
Credence took a bite and surreptitiously stared at Newt’s bare throat working―and then he remembered himself and, in punishment (because surely Newt would be too kind to do it himself, but it was like Ma always said: bad behaviour deserves punishment), he bit the inside of his cheek until it bled. His whole mouth tasted like copper and this peculiar gentleman had said, “I’ll help you” and tomorrow it would be sunny as well. Just for him. Just for this.
Be good, he thought to himself. Be good, be good, be good… No more filthy thoughts, then. He couldn’t ruin this: it was his last opportunity, as the lady President had said. So he couldn’t mess up. He had to be good.
Fill: Newt/Credence. Take the fever out of me (1/6)
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1.
It was nothing. Under the half-light of the sun dyeing the sky in the horizon, Credence watched as Newt Scamander turned his head in an attempt to evade the President’s gaze. She was startlingly beautiful, lovely in the manner of old trees with deep roots, and despite the fact they were more or less of a size, Newt seemed smaller, almost, swallowed up by his coat. He wasn’t wearing the scarf, that striped one that made his hair look so fair, and so the movement revealed the long line of his neck, the delicate shadow of his throat. The freckles continued undisturbed, Credence noticed. He wondered if―
Oh, he thought. His hand attempted to close on thin air, and he only realised when his nails dug into the meat of his palm. He hid the hurt hand in the pocket of his trousers. Ma’s last punishment hadn’t healed yet, and he was certain he could feel a drop of blood trickling out from between his fingers. He didn’t want them to see, the―the wizards. He didn’t want them to think he was any stranger than he already was.
“Mr. Scamander,” said the lady President. One of her brows rose in a perfect arc. “We’re risking a great deal with this, as you are no doubt aware. I trust you will behave responsibly, then.”
Mr. Scamander―no, he had said to call him Newt, hadn’t he? And for once Credence wanted to be daring, he wanted―there was no harm in merely thinking it, surely. It wasn’t disrespect. Newt shuffled from foot to foot and ran a hand through his hair, which stood out every which way in an artlessly charming mop.
“I’m very responsible,” said Newt, finally.
The President looked pained. “Go on,” she said, as if resigned. “Off with you. Good luck, Mr. Scamander. I hope we never have a reason to meet again.”
One corner of Newt’s mouth twitched like it wanted to smile. Credence jerked his eyes away. Filthy. He was having filthy thoughts. That was no good. Mr. Scamander―Newt―he was being terribly kind, accepting to put his reputation on the line for someone like Credence: penniless, untalented, appallingly stupid, and… a disaster even when it came to things like magic.
So. He had to be good. It was just a favour, that was all. Mr. Scamander was a good person.
Newt was a good person.
“Well,” said Newt to Credence, who jumped a little because he had been rather determinedly staring off into space. “Well, I guess that’s it, then. We’re free to go.” That little twitch again, as if he wanted to smile. Credence watched him from the corner of his eye as Newt shuffled some more, patting the pocket of his coat―it seemed to move a little after he took his hand away, which made Credence stare―and then rummaging through his pockets. He found what he wanted a moment later: a cookie bagged in delicate yellow paper, tied neatly with a ribbon. “It’s for you,” said Newt, reaching out a bit spastically. Credence waited a beat before he accepted it with his unharmed hand. “From Queenie. Well, actually Jacob made it, only she went and bought it. He’s got a bakery, you see.” Another little twitch. “He’s doing very well.”
Credence stared at the cookie.
“You can eat it,” said Newt helpfully. “If you―unless you don’t like cookies?”
“I like them,” said Credence. His voice sounded strange―but of course, because he’d been screaming and crying in an unsightly heap for ages while Newt attempted to soothe him. He’d been graceless about it, Credence recalled, and yet he more than made up for it with a kind of disarming sincerity.
Was it any wonder, that all those animals… Newt had said he was a magizoologist, that he took care of hurt and lost animals and helped them, and that he was studying them so he could write a book, to help people understand them. The look on his face had brightened with a vivacious intensity that turned him from sort of funny-looking if adorable to absolutely charming. He seemed very invested in it, Mr. Scamander did.
Credence supposed it would be peculiar to voice his wish: he wouldn’t mind being an animal at all, if it meant someone like Mr. Scamander would mind him. If it meant he could go around in the chest pocket of Newt’s coat, because he was kind, and a bit skittish, and brave… and… and Credence…
He took out his hurt hand and then he pulled the tiny ribbon. There was some awkwardness, when Credence didn’t know what to do with it, but Newt rescued him by plucking it out of his hand with an offhand “somebody’ll want to play with it, I expect,” and so Credence removed the paper―it felt achingly thin, enough that a bit of carelessness would tear it, and… he wanted to keep it, just because―and examined the cookie.
It was… non-traditional.
“Jacob made it,” said Newt again, blurting it out like the silence was getting to him.
Credence split the cookie in two―a sharp point―a limb?―dug into his wound, so he kept that part and offered the clean half to Newt, who accepted it with a proper smile: it began in his eyes and then flooded the rest of his face like an underground river.
The sun was warm. They ate.
Credence took a bite and surreptitiously stared at Newt’s bare throat working―and then he remembered himself and, in punishment (because surely Newt would be too kind to do it himself, but it was like Ma always said: bad behaviour deserves punishment), he bit the inside of his cheek until it bled. His whole mouth tasted like copper and this peculiar gentleman had said, “I’ll help you” and tomorrow it would be sunny as well. Just for him. Just for this.
Be good, he thought to himself. Be good, be good, be good… No more filthy thoughts, then. He couldn’t ruin this: it was his last opportunity, as the lady President had said. So he couldn’t mess up. He had to be good.
But he still licked his fingers.