FAVORITE COLOR OF SPOUSE A:Pale blue, like a winter's morning, when the snow hasn't quite come in to choke out the sky.
What if it's red, like a child's balloon as it floats away, shrinking into an ever smaller dot against the wide expanse of the clouds and sky. Red, like fresh cherries picked from the trees your mother used to grow. Red, like strawberries. Red, like kissing. Red, like blood on the sidewalk. Red, like ending.
FAVORITE COLOR OF SPOUSE B:Green, like grass thriving after a rainstorm.
What if it's purple, like the ribbons your mother wore to hold back her hair as she dug her fingers deep into the soil of her home. Purple, like plum juice smearing across smiling cheeks and staining spidery thin fingers. Purple, like thunderstorms. Purple, like hope. Purple, like bruises on a ribcage. Purple, like ending.
PATRONUS OF SPOUSE A:
PATRONUS OF SPOUSE B:
You try to imagine what Credence's patronus would be. A seal, perhaps. Something quick, and small, and effortlessly curious. Newt's would be something utterly bizarre. A giraffe, or a narwhal, or an ostrich, or a platypus. You smile, though it's brittle and there's salt in the back of your throat, as you envision him banishing a horde of dementors with nothing but a shimmering platypus at his side.
Instead you write has not yet performed patronus charm in my presence for both of them. One less lie. One less inch of rope to hang yourself with. If you're found out – if they realize you're lying on official government documents, everything will be naught. You'll be fired, cast out from MACUSA, and Credence and Newt will lose what pathetic protection you award them.
Let them come for me, you think. Let them come. It will surely hurt less than this.
==
You come across Credence three days later, purely on accident. He's about to duck across the street, clearly in a hurry and heedless of traffic. Though he's too far away for you to touch, you reach out nonetheless. Your magic snags the back of his jacket, holding him immobile on the corner with one foot still poised to walk straight into the path of a delivery truck.
“Please watch where you're going,” you make your way over to him, laying a careful hand on his shoulder and releasing your magic. His jacket falls to rest against his back, and Credence blinks up at you.
“Thank you, Mr. Graves,” he blushes, pink and young and lovely. You clear your throat, dropping your hand and looking away. He reaches for you, snagging the cuff of your jacket with his fingers. You find yourself staring down at your sleeve, the fresh snow paleness of his skin contrasting with the dark material.
“No wand,” he murmurs suddenly, looking you over. “You don't have to use a wand?” Shifting uncomfortably on your feet, you shake your head.
“Not always, no,” you admit, cautious of his reaction. Even witches and wizards raised around magic – those who grew up in your side of the world – can respond badly to wandless spells and enchantments. Credence's eyes grow wide, and you pull back. You have no idea what this boy – raised by a cruel, anti-wizard family – will think of you.
“Does that mean you're a very powerful wizard?” His voice is hushed.
“Some might say so,” you grimace, self conscious and just a little embarrassed. Credence breaks into a smile, small and wonderful, which you find yourself returning.
“I'm married to a very powerful wizard,” he beams.
“Two of them, actually,” you correct him, rocking back on your heels. “Mr. Scamander is very skilled, if my understanding is anywhere close to correct.” He laughs, eyes soft and dreamy.
“Yeah, Newt's pretty good. Actually, I have to go meet him now. But. Maybe later, we could all get coffee? The three of us?” You smile, though something tells you that Newt will fight that plan with everything he has, and nod. “So yes?” Credence clarifies, tugging a little on your sleeve.
“Yes, I'd like that.” His smile is blinding, and he tugs on your jacket once more, as if to reassure himself that you're not lying, and he darts off to whatever it is he needs to do today. You nod to yourself, just once, as you watch him disappear down a corner. You'll wait for them to reach out to you.
You'll wait.
==
You wait a very long time.
==
You're still waiting, when you and Goldstein are called in for a raid on a group of dark wizards with particularly vicious reputations. You're still waiting, as you pull on your coat and watch Goldstein do the same. You're still waiting, and she catches your elbow.
“Do you want to tell them, sir?”
“No,” you say before you can think of another answer. There isn't one. If something happens – if you don't come back – there's enough of a paper trail to protect them. You've changed your will to make them the sole benefactors. That alone should be enough to take them off the Marriage Registry. You have a feeling they won't thank you.
“I'm sorry, sir,” Goldstein's mouth is flat in a frown, and you can't help but smile. She's protective of you, you realize. Of your situation. “I'm sorry you're going through this alone.”
“But I'm not alone,” you correct her, holding open your office door. “I've got you.” She doesn't have an answer for you, just quirks the corners of her mouth up in a sad imitation of comfort.
==
Red, like blood on the sidewalk.
Purple, like bruises on a ribcage.
==
You take a curse to the chest. Goldstein, ever the professional, shouts something – your name, perhaps – and defends your honor with a violent hex. You'd be proud, if you weren't coughing up blood. Copper bursts and blooms in your lungs and the back of your mouth. Pain burns through the marrow of your bones, rattling up your spine and across your ribs.
Is this how you die?
“Of course not, sir,” Goldstein kneels next to you, her hands on your face. “You're going to be fine.”
You're okay with dying like this. Sprawled out on the floor, unable to breathe past the seizing of your muscles, your head full of lightning and screams. You're okay with this being the end.
“Well, I'm not,” she spits angrily. “Not while those stupid husbands of yours don't even know what you've done for them.”
You don't even know their favorite colors. Favorite foods. You don't know.
“There you go then,” Goldstein mutters. “Better stick around so you can find out, huh?”
But they don't want you.
==
Red, like ending.
Purple, like ending.
==
Are you ending?
==
What you don't see is this:
Tina Goldstein, the only other auror at the office worth anything, all but kicks down the door to the Scamander-Barebone apartment. Her face is wet with tears, but she's not crying. She's angry. She's furious. She clenches copies of your marriage reports in your hands. Months worth of falsified, damning documents. She slams them down on the rickety table in their kitchen. They stare at her. She screams, and screams, and screams.
She cries.
==
When you wake up, you immediately recognize the ceiling as the Spell Damage Unit of St. Barton's Magical Hospital. You wonder what it says that you can recognize the building, specifically this unit, by its ceiling alone. Everything hurts, and sparks of agony shoot across your skull when you try to move.
“Lay still, please.” A soft, accented voice says from your bedside. Despite the gentle command, you shift to see your visitor. Visitors. There are two of them. One shy, with hair dark and thick like a raven's wing on a winter's night, and the other sly, with ginger curls that fall into his eyes like waves of sunlight. Though they both look rather sad at the moment, with pink rimmed eyes and slumped shoulders.
You smile, despite the pain, and try to reach for them. Newt catches your hand softly, and lays it on the bed. His fingers curl around yours, and he bows his head.
“I'm sorry,” he croaks. Credence nods, over and over, tears slipping down his cheeks. You'd brush them away, if you could only lift your arm. You want to tell him that he has nothing to apologize for, but all that comes out is a sigh. “No, don't speak,” Newt leans over you, not quite touching your face with his spindly fingers, “you need to get some rest. We'll be here when you wake up.”
“We're not going anywhere,” Credence croaks, laying his hands atop yours and Newt's.
You fall asleep, warm under the weight of their comfort.
==
They are still there, when you wake up again. Judging by the darkness, night has fallen upon St. Barton's, and your husbands are asleep on a cot that someone has brought in for them. They're curled on their sides, Credence tucked under Newt's chin, facing you. They each have one hand stretched out, towards you, as if to remind you that they're really staying this time.
They're really staying this time.
You don't have to wait anymore.
Newt shifts with a sigh, his eyes cracking open. He squints in the sleepy darkness of the room, and then smiles when he realizes you're awake. You smile back, and he wiggles his fingers at you.
“We're not going anywhere,” he promises, his eyes slipping closed. “You can rest, Mr. Graves. We'll still be here in the morning.”
==
“Ms. Goldstein told us what you did,” Newt blurts the next afternoon. The healers have fussed over your for the day – barring any sort of magical, medical catastrophe, you three will be left alone. It's as good a time as any to have soul baring conversations.
“Did she now,” you stare up at the ceiling, wondering what exactly she did while you were unconscious and potentially dying.
“She showed us the forms,” Credence mumbles, cradling your hand in his. His pale fingers tick over your knuckles with a restless affection, but he doesn't look at you. “Said that you were risking everything to protect us.”
“Goldstein is dramatic,” you clear your throat. Newt settles his arms on the edge of the bed, folding himself practically in half. What an odd, flexible husband you have. He narrows his eyes at you, and you do your best to hold his gaze.
“She may have implied that, if you were found to be willfully lying on official MACUSA documents, you would be stripped of credentials and sacked immediately.” When you don't say anything, he exhales through his nose. “My favorite color is orange, by the way. Orange like the setting sun. Though green, like grass thriving after a rainstorm, sounds nice too.”
“I like blue. All shades,” Credence adds hesitantly. “And yellow. I don't know if I have a favorite color though.” He shrugs, and you laugh, even though it hurts your ribs.
“I like blue too,” you admit, turning your hand up to lace your fingers with his. “Dark blue, like the sky during a lightning storm.” Credence studies you for a moment – Newt, in turn, studies Credence out of the corner of his eye – before surging forward and pressing a quick kiss to your cheek.
“That was sweet,” you tell him, and he blushes. And it was. Sweet. Like spun sugar, melting on the back of your tongue. “Thank you. Unfair, that you do it when I'm a hospital bed and can't do anything.” He blushes harder, staring at your entwined fingers, and Newt watches you both with a quiet sort of fondness.
==
Credence falls asleep between you and Newt. He's sleeping on his side, fingers still touching yours, with his back pressed against Newt's hip. They pushed the cot close to your bed – as close as the healers will allow – so you can see the fluttering of his eyelashes as he dreams. Newt is carding his fingers through his hair with one hand, watching him fondly, as he speaks.
“My patronus,” he tells you, “is an axolotl.”
“An axolotl.” You repeat, amused and all too proud of yourself. Something utterly bizarre, indeed.
“Yes. It's a walking fish – a type of salamander,” he chooses his words carefully, but his eyes light up with excitement. “Unlike other amphibians, which thrive both on land and in water, axolotls never develop lungs. Instead, they have gills, with frilled gill stalks. Truly fascinating little buggers.”
“You've researched them,” you comment mildly, and he he looks at you with a smile.
“Is that surprising?”
“No.” You huff, thinking of his famed case of creatures. A case which you will perhaps get to see, one day soon. “Mine is a snow leopard,” you say quietly, brushing Credence's fingertips with your own. They twitch – his hand curls into a little fist – but he doesn't wake.
“Lovely all the same, Mr. Graves,” he insists. “Have you seen one, in real life?”
“Only in zoos,” you say, shrugging and then immediately hissing in pain. Movement is still difficult – your entire body is sore, and your bones ache with every shift. Newt watches you grimace, his eyes wide with sympathy. “You can call me Percival, you know.” You offer, if only so you can hear what your name sounds like in his voice, how he holds the syllables of yourself in his mouth.
“Percival,” Newt repeats to himself, testing out the shape of your name. You blush, dropping your gaze to focus on Credence.
“What's his patronus, if I may ask?” Newt follows your gaze, brushing back Credence's bangs from his forehead. The boy nuzzles into the touch, sighing softly.
“We haven't gotten that far in his studies,” Newt admits quietly. “He only recently came into his powers, and I've been doing my best to teach him. He's a wonderful student though – picks it up, like you wouldn't believe.”
“I could help,” you say without thinking. You refuse to look at Newt, suddenly terrified of what he might say. You don't mean to intrude on their life – their quiet little paradise – but you've been so lonely, for so long. You want them in your manor, in you life. You want to teach Credence magic and learn about Newt's creatures. You want a family.
“Credence mentioned you using wandless magic – he said you're a very powerful wizard.” Startled, you stare at him – Newt's teasing, his mouth twisted into a smirk. “Wouldn't hurt to have one of those around.” You groan, more embarrassed than anything, and cover your face with one hand. “And Credence would probably benefit from having more than one teacher.”
“So, I can stay then?” You ask before you can stop yourself, dropping your hand to rest on the bed.
“Oh yes, Percival,” Newt's grin softens into something kind and quiet, “you can stay.”
FILL: you're the only one who knows that i'm still breathing pt.2
What if it's red, like a child's balloon as it floats away, shrinking into an ever smaller dot against the wide expanse of the clouds and sky. Red, like fresh cherries picked from the trees your mother used to grow. Red, like strawberries. Red, like kissing. Red, like blood on the sidewalk. Red, like ending.
FAVORITE COLOR OF SPOUSE B: Green, like grass thriving after a rainstorm.
What if it's purple, like the ribbons your mother wore to hold back her hair as she dug her fingers deep into the soil of her home. Purple, like plum juice smearing across smiling cheeks and staining spidery thin fingers. Purple, like thunderstorms. Purple, like hope. Purple, like bruises on a ribcage. Purple, like ending.
PATRONUS OF SPOUSE A:
PATRONUS OF SPOUSE B:
You try to imagine what Credence's patronus would be. A seal, perhaps. Something quick, and small, and effortlessly curious. Newt's would be something utterly bizarre. A giraffe, or a narwhal, or an ostrich, or a platypus. You smile, though it's brittle and there's salt in the back of your throat, as you envision him banishing a horde of dementors with nothing but a shimmering platypus at his side.
Instead you write has not yet performed patronus charm in my presence for both of them. One less lie. One less inch of rope to hang yourself with. If you're found out – if they realize you're lying on official government documents, everything will be naught. You'll be fired, cast out from MACUSA, and Credence and Newt will lose what pathetic protection you award them.
Let them come for me, you think. Let them come. It will surely hurt less than this.
==
You come across Credence three days later, purely on accident. He's about to duck across the street, clearly in a hurry and heedless of traffic. Though he's too far away for you to touch, you reach out nonetheless. Your magic snags the back of his jacket, holding him immobile on the corner with one foot still poised to walk straight into the path of a delivery truck.
“Please watch where you're going,” you make your way over to him, laying a careful hand on his shoulder and releasing your magic. His jacket falls to rest against his back, and Credence blinks up at you.
“Thank you, Mr. Graves,” he blushes, pink and young and lovely. You clear your throat, dropping your hand and looking away. He reaches for you, snagging the cuff of your jacket with his fingers. You find yourself staring down at your sleeve, the fresh snow paleness of his skin contrasting with the dark material.
“No wand,” he murmurs suddenly, looking you over. “You don't have to use a wand?” Shifting uncomfortably on your feet, you shake your head.
“Not always, no,” you admit, cautious of his reaction. Even witches and wizards raised around magic – those who grew up in your side of the world – can respond badly to wandless spells and enchantments. Credence's eyes grow wide, and you pull back. You have no idea what this boy – raised by a cruel, anti-wizard family – will think of you.
“Does that mean you're a very powerful wizard?” His voice is hushed.
“Some might say so,” you grimace, self conscious and just a little embarrassed. Credence breaks into a smile, small and wonderful, which you find yourself returning.
“I'm married to a very powerful wizard,” he beams.
“Two of them, actually,” you correct him, rocking back on your heels. “Mr. Scamander is very skilled, if my understanding is anywhere close to correct.” He laughs, eyes soft and dreamy.
“Yeah, Newt's pretty good. Actually, I have to go meet him now. But. Maybe later, we could all get coffee? The three of us?” You smile, though something tells you that Newt will fight that plan with everything he has, and nod. “So yes?” Credence clarifies, tugging a little on your sleeve.
“Yes, I'd like that.” His smile is blinding, and he tugs on your jacket once more, as if to reassure himself that you're not lying, and he darts off to whatever it is he needs to do today. You nod to yourself, just once, as you watch him disappear down a corner. You'll wait for them to reach out to you.
You'll wait.
==
You wait a very long time.
==
You're still waiting, when you and Goldstein are called in for a raid on a group of dark wizards with particularly vicious reputations. You're still waiting, as you pull on your coat and watch Goldstein do the same. You're still waiting, and she catches your elbow.
“Do you want to tell them, sir?”
“No,” you say before you can think of another answer. There isn't one. If something happens – if you don't come back – there's enough of a paper trail to protect them. You've changed your will to make them the sole benefactors. That alone should be enough to take them off the Marriage Registry. You have a feeling they won't thank you.
“I'm sorry, sir,” Goldstein's mouth is flat in a frown, and you can't help but smile. She's protective of you, you realize. Of your situation. “I'm sorry you're going through this alone.”
“But I'm not alone,” you correct her, holding open your office door. “I've got you.” She doesn't have an answer for you, just quirks the corners of her mouth up in a sad imitation of comfort.
==
Red, like blood on the sidewalk.
Purple, like bruises on a ribcage.
==
You take a curse to the chest. Goldstein, ever the professional, shouts something – your name, perhaps – and defends your honor with a violent hex. You'd be proud, if you weren't coughing up blood. Copper bursts and blooms in your lungs and the back of your mouth. Pain burns through the marrow of your bones, rattling up your spine and across your ribs.
Is this how you die?
“Of course not, sir,” Goldstein kneels next to you, her hands on your face. “You're going to be fine.”
You're okay with dying like this. Sprawled out on the floor, unable to breathe past the seizing of your muscles, your head full of lightning and screams. You're okay with this being the end.
“Well, I'm not,” she spits angrily. “Not while those stupid husbands of yours don't even know what you've done for them.”
You don't even know their favorite colors. Favorite foods. You don't know.
“There you go then,” Goldstein mutters. “Better stick around so you can find out, huh?”
But they don't want you.
==
Red, like ending.
Purple, like ending.
==
Are you ending?
==
What you don't see is this:
Tina Goldstein, the only other auror at the office worth anything, all but kicks down the door to the Scamander-Barebone apartment. Her face is wet with tears, but she's not crying. She's angry. She's furious. She clenches copies of your marriage reports in your hands. Months worth of falsified, damning documents. She slams them down on the rickety table in their kitchen. They stare at her. She screams, and screams, and screams.
She cries.
==
When you wake up, you immediately recognize the ceiling as the Spell Damage Unit of St. Barton's Magical Hospital. You wonder what it says that you can recognize the building, specifically this unit, by its ceiling alone. Everything hurts, and sparks of agony shoot across your skull when you try to move.
“Lay still, please.” A soft, accented voice says from your bedside. Despite the gentle command, you shift to see your visitor. Visitors. There are two of them. One shy, with hair dark and thick like a raven's wing on a winter's night, and the other sly, with ginger curls that fall into his eyes like waves of sunlight. Though they both look rather sad at the moment, with pink rimmed eyes and slumped shoulders.
You smile, despite the pain, and try to reach for them. Newt catches your hand softly, and lays it on the bed. His fingers curl around yours, and he bows his head.
“I'm sorry,” he croaks. Credence nods, over and over, tears slipping down his cheeks. You'd brush them away, if you could only lift your arm. You want to tell him that he has nothing to apologize for, but all that comes out is a sigh. “No, don't speak,” Newt leans over you, not quite touching your face with his spindly fingers, “you need to get some rest. We'll be here when you wake up.”
“We're not going anywhere,” Credence croaks, laying his hands atop yours and Newt's.
You fall asleep, warm under the weight of their comfort.
==
They are still there, when you wake up again. Judging by the darkness, night has fallen upon St. Barton's, and your husbands are asleep on a cot that someone has brought in for them. They're curled on their sides, Credence tucked under Newt's chin, facing you. They each have one hand stretched out, towards you, as if to remind you that they're really staying this time.
They're really staying this time.
You don't have to wait anymore.
Newt shifts with a sigh, his eyes cracking open. He squints in the sleepy darkness of the room, and then smiles when he realizes you're awake. You smile back, and he wiggles his fingers at you.
“We're not going anywhere,” he promises, his eyes slipping closed. “You can rest, Mr. Graves. We'll still be here in the morning.”
==
“Ms. Goldstein told us what you did,” Newt blurts the next afternoon. The healers have fussed over your for the day – barring any sort of magical, medical catastrophe, you three will be left alone. It's as good a time as any to have soul baring conversations.
“Did she now,” you stare up at the ceiling, wondering what exactly she did while you were unconscious and potentially dying.
“She showed us the forms,” Credence mumbles, cradling your hand in his. His pale fingers tick over your knuckles with a restless affection, but he doesn't look at you. “Said that you were risking everything to protect us.”
“Goldstein is dramatic,” you clear your throat. Newt settles his arms on the edge of the bed, folding himself practically in half. What an odd, flexible husband you have. He narrows his eyes at you, and you do your best to hold his gaze.
“She may have implied that, if you were found to be willfully lying on official MACUSA documents, you would be stripped of credentials and sacked immediately.” When you don't say anything, he exhales through his nose. “My favorite color is orange, by the way. Orange like the setting sun. Though green, like grass thriving after a rainstorm, sounds nice too.”
“I like blue. All shades,” Credence adds hesitantly. “And yellow. I don't know if I have a favorite color though.” He shrugs, and you laugh, even though it hurts your ribs.
“I like blue too,” you admit, turning your hand up to lace your fingers with his. “Dark blue, like the sky during a lightning storm.” Credence studies you for a moment – Newt, in turn, studies Credence out of the corner of his eye – before surging forward and pressing a quick kiss to your cheek.
“That was sweet,” you tell him, and he blushes. And it was. Sweet. Like spun sugar, melting on the back of your tongue. “Thank you. Unfair, that you do it when I'm a hospital bed and can't do anything.” He blushes harder, staring at your entwined fingers, and Newt watches you both with a quiet sort of fondness.
==
Credence falls asleep between you and Newt. He's sleeping on his side, fingers still touching yours, with his back pressed against Newt's hip. They pushed the cot close to your bed – as close as the healers will allow – so you can see the fluttering of his eyelashes as he dreams. Newt is carding his fingers through his hair with one hand, watching him fondly, as he speaks.
“My patronus,” he tells you, “is an axolotl.”
“An axolotl.” You repeat, amused and all too proud of yourself. Something utterly bizarre, indeed.
“Yes. It's a walking fish – a type of salamander,” he chooses his words carefully, but his eyes light up with excitement. “Unlike other amphibians, which thrive both on land and in water, axolotls never develop lungs. Instead, they have gills, with frilled gill stalks. Truly fascinating little buggers.”
“You've researched them,” you comment mildly, and he he looks at you with a smile.
“Is that surprising?”
“No.” You huff, thinking of his famed case of creatures. A case which you will perhaps get to see, one day soon. “Mine is a snow leopard,” you say quietly, brushing Credence's fingertips with your own. They twitch – his hand curls into a little fist – but he doesn't wake.
“Snow leopard,” Newt echoes. “That sounds lovely.”
“Not as unique as an axolotl.”
“Lovely all the same, Mr. Graves,” he insists. “Have you seen one, in real life?”
“Only in zoos,” you say, shrugging and then immediately hissing in pain. Movement is still difficult – your entire body is sore, and your bones ache with every shift. Newt watches you grimace, his eyes wide with sympathy. “You can call me Percival, you know.” You offer, if only so you can hear what your name sounds like in his voice, how he holds the syllables of yourself in his mouth.
“Percival,” Newt repeats to himself, testing out the shape of your name. You blush, dropping your gaze to focus on Credence.
“What's his patronus, if I may ask?” Newt follows your gaze, brushing back Credence's bangs from his forehead. The boy nuzzles into the touch, sighing softly.
“We haven't gotten that far in his studies,” Newt admits quietly. “He only recently came into his powers, and I've been doing my best to teach him. He's a wonderful student though – picks it up, like you wouldn't believe.”
“I could help,” you say without thinking. You refuse to look at Newt, suddenly terrified of what he might say. You don't mean to intrude on their life – their quiet little paradise – but you've been so lonely, for so long. You want them in your manor, in you life. You want to teach Credence magic and learn about Newt's creatures. You want a family.
“Credence mentioned you using wandless magic – he said you're a very powerful wizard.” Startled, you stare at him – Newt's teasing, his mouth twisted into a smirk. “Wouldn't hurt to have one of those around.” You groan, more embarrassed than anything, and cover your face with one hand. “And Credence would probably benefit from having more than one teacher.”
“So, I can stay then?” You ask before you can stop yourself, dropping your hand to rest on the bed.
“Oh yes, Percival,” Newt's grin softens into something kind and quiet, “you can stay.”