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fantasticbeasts_kinkmeme) wrote2016-11-23 07:27 am
fantasticbeasts_kinkmeme) wrote2016-11-23 07:27 am
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Prompt Post #1
ROUND 1
FUCK IT WE'LL FIGURE OUT SPECIFICS LATER
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Fill: 1/6 (Real!Graves/Newt - Graves is good with animals)
(Anonymous) 2016-12-15 08:58 am (UTC)(link)Not out of sentiment, really—he certainly hadn’t been there anywhere near long enough to put down roots. It is more practicality that sparks the thought, bolstered by a growing frustration and a dislike of portkeys that all of his non-human companions seem to share.
Pickett is grumbling even now as they prepare to leave and Newt cannot bring himself to shush him. He feels rather like grumbling as well.
He had given a statement before he left the first time—not even two weeks ago—right along with Tina and Queenie, and he is rather certain he included everything worth saying. It is not his fault that MACUSA failed to hold Grindelwald and he truly does not see how treading the same paths over and over, while they search for some miraculously small detail they might have missed, will help them find him again.
But he prefers to be helpful, to be kind where he can (and he has already run afoul of their cells and their punishments). So, here he is, his third summons in hand, waiting impatiently in the Ministry for the international portkeys to activate. He has Pickett in one pocket of his coat, a sickly diricawl named Alice tucked into another, and the rest of his family placed away as safely as possible in his case with its newly repaired latches.
He remembers at the last moment to check for his wand, finds it in his pockets with a sigh of relief, and then the portkey pulls him away.
***************************************************************
He should have known better—really, he should have.
But then, he'd been so sure that he'd planned ahead as best he could. He'd fixed his latches, made sure the case wouldn't come open no matter how he shook it. He'd slipped a peppermint into his pocket, in case poor Pickett felt queasy again. He'd even practiced his landings at home, determined to make the trip as smooth as possible for everyone!
The nature of portkeys, though, does not make for a pleasant excursion, no matter how he prepares. The trip disorients him, as per usual, and he still stumbles on the landing, brushing into other incoming travelers as they pass by him and join the ever present crowd moving throughout the main hall.
That alone would be bearable, if a bit embarrassing. But Alice wakes at the disturbances – even though she has, up until now, been content to doze in his pocket, dosed on medicine for her cold and lured by his body warmth—and decides that she very much disapproves.
A displeased diricawl does not stay in one place for long.
His only warning is a low warble, followed by the soft susurrus of shifting feathers, and then his pocket is lighter than it should be. He sticks a futile hand in, just in case, but he is already spinning to search and indeed, he finds only loose down feathers at his fingertips.
He catches sight of her multi-hued plumage on a bench to his right, her juvenile body puffing up as she stares at the mass of humans before her. It is, he realizes, likely the most alarming location she has ever seen.
"Here, darling –" he tries, hurrying forward, but he is dismayed (if not surprised) when she vanishes before he finishes the first syllable, reappearing a dozen feet away.
He winces unhappily as five shoes nearly kick her in the first three seconds and he can just see her indignation building. Even as he throws himself after her, she is off again, puffing in and out of existence in a sporadic path across MACUSA's atrium.
"Oh, no." He moans to himself, more resigned than anything now, and follows right along after her.
He is used to this sort of chase—his niffler is a persistent little bugger, entirely unrepentant, and has a bad habit of getting him into trouble. This hunt is a little harder without a trail of scattered riches and scandalized victims to follow, but he moves fast enough to catch flashes of her feathers between the many legs and statues and pillars.
He nearly loses her when she moves up to the next floor of the hall, but a few surprised yelps send him in the right direction. He pauses at the top of the stairs, puffing a bit and glancing around at knee level for stray feathers or the bird herself.
He notices, instead, a man kneeling off to his right.
Well, not just kneeling—he is bent over, twisting to peer beneath one of the black couches that line the walls with seemingly little care for the state of his sharply-pressed robes. Newt can only see the back of his head—dark hair, slicked back, and something odd stirs in his mind—but by the way his shoulders and head shift minutely, the object of his focus is not stationary.
Newt sighs to himself, preparing the usual excuses as he moves forward—this, too, he'd had much practice at, but it still makes him uncomfortable each time. Before he gets even halfway though, the wizard's back straightens, his hands curved together in front of him and –
Oh.
There, cupped in his palms, is a ruffled, rotund, petulant-looking diricawl.
Newt blinks, a bit impressed. It had taken him hours to coax the breeding pair in his case out of their hiding spot when he first picked them up. Young Alice has, of course, had the benefit of socialization with him since her hatching, but the ease with which the man earned her trust speaks well of his skill and, Newt decides, his character.
And then the man shifts, moving Alice to one hand and raising the other up to tuck long fingers behind her head and scratch at fluffed purple feathers sticking up on the back of her neck. It takes a moment, but then he finds her favorite spot and she contorts, twisting to press her head into his hand as her tiny wings started to twitch.
Something in Newt’s chest warms and he can’t quite contain a silly smile at the sight—most people aren’t usually so accommodating to his creatures, even the harmless ones like diricawls. He slips up behind the man to join them, much less anxious now. Still, it is probably best to cover all his bases, so he starts with, "Sorry about that."
The man looks up, rises to his feet, and Newt finds himself face to face with Percival Graves.
He stutter-steps for a moment, the skip in his stride echoing the skip of his heart as adrenaline sparks cold down his spine. Before he can make a fool of himself though, Alice lets out a soft, trilling coo, rubbing her cheek against the auror’s thumb in an unsubtle hint to continue the petting.
It’s enough to shake him back out of memory. Grindelwald would hardly try using the same disguise twice. Besides, MACUSA would have improved their security—they must have—after they so thoroughly missed the abduction and impersonation of such an important official.
This, then, must be the real Graves, the man Newt never had a chance to meet.
“You’re alive.” He blurts, because Tina hadn’t mentioned that they’d finally found him, but then he must resist the urge to bite his own tongue. He’s not the best at social interaction (not with humans, at least), but he’s at least reasonably certain that’s not the best starting point. His eyes flicker uncontrollably down to his shoes.
He glances back up in surprise when the other man snorts softly with laughter.
“Last I checked,” Graves agrees, something almost self-depreciating in his tone. “and observation may not be their strong suit, but I think even this crowd would notice Inferi wandering around.”
And his voice still sounds so much like—but he isn’t, it’s so very obvious when Newt works up the courage to look straight at him. His posture is open rather than aggressively tense and there’s a wry smile just starting to curl the edges of his lips. He has gone back to absently scratching Alice, who looks quite pleased with her newfound human.
He is, perhaps, a bit more ragged than Newt remembers him—remembers the impostor—being. His bones are a little too sharp in his face, the shaved sides of his hair are starting to grow out, and he has heavy shadows growing under his eyes.
The eyes themselves, though, are bright: a lively deep brown, and when Newt finally does meet his gaze, Graves tips his head slightly. “Have we met?”
“Oh! No, we…I mean…” Newt ducks his head and starts over, unsure of what he’s trying to say. “I’m Newt. Newt Scamander. I was here when Grindelwald –”
He stops, uncertain if it is still a sensitive subject, and waves a hand a bit uselessly. Graves seems to glean exactly what he means, though. His smile slips away as his posture straightens and tenses, and his friendly eyes shutter. Newt finds himself wanting that brightness back.
“Ah yes, I remember. Your involvement was quite prominent in the reports.” Graves says. He waits a moment, but just as Newt wonders if perhaps he’s supposed to respond, the man continues. “I hope you’ve fully recovered from Grindelwald’s attacks in the subways.”
Attacks? He must mean the lightning whips. Newt’s muscles still quiver and shake occasionally, but the healers looked him over thoroughly. He’s been reassured that such a reaction is normal and will fade over time.
“Oh, I’m all right.” He says, and tries to sound decisive about it. The other man doesn’t look entirely reassured, so he adds, “They said the spells he used were meant to cause pain more than any permanent damage.”
Something in Graves’ face twitches – it’s quick, there and gone, but Newt’s stomach drops along with it and he has to resist the urge to physically reach out.
“It wasn’t your fault, you know.” He says, entirely without meaning to, and now he does bite his tongue. This isn’t his place and he knows it. But, in for a knut, in for a galleon, and he plows ahead. “What Grindelwald did…any of it.”
And indeed, Graves’ next glance is sharp, his shifting muscles a warning. But just as quickly, the tension slips away, leaving him looking, on the whole, more exhausted than angry. He looks down at Alice, petting her head with one gentle finger.
“I should think I am certainly responsible for some of it,” he says, and it could almost be neutral if it were not in the quiet air of a confession, “if I neglected my department so much that none of my men noticed the switch.”
Newt…does not quite know how to answer this. He is used to distance, now, even from his family, after all these years of travel. If he were replaced (though he cannot think why anyone would want to do so) he would not be surprised if no one guessed. It is clear, though, that Graves feels quite differently about the matter, and perhaps he should.
But Newt is long used to spotting creatures in need of care, even when they try to hide their weaknesses from him. And although Graves might be human, the hurt lurking beneath the surface of his control still catches Newt’s eye, still awakens that need to soothe.
“I doubt it’s the first time Grindelwald’s had to impersonate somebody. He’s probably quite good at fooling people by now.” Newt tries, but though the other man inclines his head in agreement, it does not seem to help.
So, Newt pulls in a breath, thinks on the past few weeks for a moment, and tries a different tactic.
“My mother used to say that we look less closely at the things we are most familiar with. We know what we expect to find and so we don’t look any closer.” He agrees with her now, when he thinks of the pain he might have saved himself if he’d paid a little more attention. “And aurors are just people, for all their training. They fall into the same traps; they make mistakes. But unless you take responsibility for every mistake your men make, I don’t think that can be considered your fault.”
He glances up, catches the other man’s dark eyes, and glances back down again. He forces himself to finish. “I wasn’t familiar with you before, Mr. Graves, and maybe that helps me. Because, I haven’t known you for long, but it already seems clear to me that you and Grindelwald don’t act much alike at all.”
Graves stares at him for a long, quiet moment and Newt has to resist the urge to backpedal immediately. Perhaps he has far overstepped – he is always overstepping, especially when he does not mean to – but this seems important, far more important than his own anxiety.
“I’m glad you think so, Mr. Scamander.” Graves finally says, and Newt has to hold in a sigh of relief.
Some of the earlier drollness is back in the other man’s voice, a hint that he might not agree as much as Newt would like. But, more importantly, his shoulders have loosened up again, that nervous tension reminiscent of a beast about to fight or flee slipping away from his posture.
Newt feels a spark of something like accomplishment and shakes it away quickly. He sticks out a hand, aware that he rather skipped over this phase before. “Just Newt is fine, thanks.”
The other man’s hand is warm and rough-skinned with callouses, and he keeps the handshake brief even as he pauses, and then offers, “Percival.”
Newt blinks in surprise at the concession and the other man adds almost immediately, “Do avoid shortening it, though, if you would.”
“You don’t like Percy?” Newt asks, raising an eyebrow, and he gets such a look of disgust in return that he can’t contain a surprised laugh.
Alice, as is her habit, twitters along with his laughter, drawing both of their eyes back to her. She puffs herself up proudly at the attention and then vanishes. They both wince, but they don’t have to worry for long. She reappears atop the auror’s head, mussing his hair with her claws, and proceeds to rearrange the strands around her, whistling lowly.
Newt stifles another smile, trying not to offend, but he needn’t have bothered. Graves – Percival grins, crooked and genuine as he reaches carefully for the impetuous bird. It shifts the lines and planes of his face just so, and Newt swallows against the unexpected flutter of billywigs in his stomach.
"She's confident, this one." Percival chuckles and Newt thinks that maybe he speaks from experience, by the easy way the auror tilts his head to slide her off and folds his hands carefully around her fragile body, not squeezing or frightening.
"You know how to handle her." He says, and manages to strike some awkward center ground between a compliment and a question. He's not sure which one he intended. Percival answers him anyway.
"One of my aunts used to trade in birds." He says, teasing at Alice with careful fingers, before resuming the petting. "Augureys and fwoopers, mostly, but she had diricawls one summer. I'd play tag with them in the manor. I usually lost, though."
"They're terrible cheaters," Newt agrees, because his diricawls love the game too, when he has the time to play it. He's smiling almost unconsciously, meeting the other man's eyes with unaccustomed ease, warmed as he is by a momentary sense of fellow-feeling.
(It's a sense that he came across so rarely in his younger years, but it seems to come so easily here in New York: from Tina and Queenie and Jacob, and now this known-but-unknown man in front of him. It bears thinking on.)
“As charming as she is,” And Newt gets the feeling that the other man means it, as he smiles down at the precious bundle in his hands, “the transport of magical creatures is highly restricted in New York. As I’m sure you know?”
“I have permits.” Newt says instinctively, and he reaches into an inner pocket that turns out to be empty. Because, of course, he’s moved them again. He flushes. “Somewhere.”
Percival raises an eyebrow at him, but amusement lingers around his mouth and eyes, softening any censure. Newt thinks of the council chamber, of the case still in his hand and of desperation – of please, don't hurt them. He feels no such defensive urge to plead with the auror in front of him now; somehow, he will be very surprised if he ever has to.
Really, how did they ever mistake Grindelwald for this man?
Fill: 1/6 part 2 (Real!Graves/Newt - Graves is good with animals)
(Anonymous) 2016-12-15 08:59 am (UTC)(link)“Ah, I’ve held you up.” He says, and perhaps Newt is imagining a thread of disappointment in his voice. He holds out Alice, who twists around to stare back at him in betrayal as the petting ends. “I’ll trust your word for the paperwork, but in the future, Mr. Scamander, it would be in your best interests to keep your permits readily available.”
“Newt.” He insists even as he accepts the diricawl and slips her back into his pocket; she settles sulkily with a soft tap on the head. His stomach reacts strangely again at the small smirk and nod of apology that he gets in return, and his mouth runs away with him again. “I could…well, the statement might take a few hours, but I could…bring the paperwork by afterwards, if you needed to look it over.”
What is he doing, really? He honestly doesn’t know.
Percival tips his head again, just slightly, but the rest of his posture is still this time. It is his face that moves, that flickers slightly between one emotion and the next, but Newt has never been good at that. He knows body language, knows creatures – humans and their quick, hidden thoughts and their confusing behaviors and their rules always end up frustrating him.
But then the man smiles at him again, stepping in just slightly closer, and Newt maybe isn’t as good with humans, but he doesn’t think this means anything bad.
“Well, if you insist. I would hate for you to find trouble over mishandled paperwork.” Percival says, something curling warm and low in his voice, stopping Newt’s protest that he’d hardly insisted right off. He feels oddly flushed and a little self-conscious, like they’re now sharing a secret as well as their space. “I’ll be in my office until late tonight, so if you happened to find your way there when your business is finished –”
“I…yes!” Newt is fumbling again, and so he forces his hands to still. “Thank you. I’ll be there.”
He does not mention how he knows the way to the man’s office, the fruitless searches that started there in the days after Grindelwald’s unmasking. This does not seem the time to describe the way Tina’s hope, every auror’s hope, had fallen with every passing day, his own falling with it in sympathy.
He does not mention this new, different hope rising now, the desire to grasp and nurture this rare, barely-there connection. Such things never come out the way he means them to.
“Well, then.” Percival says, teeth flashing sharp and pleased. “Until later, Newt.”
Then he strides off, dark robes snapping at his heels. Newt watches him go until Pickett climbs out of his pocket, pulling his attention away by pinching his ear and chirping at him. It sounds distinctly disapproving.
“I know.” He moans, even if he really doesn’t. He has no idea what he’s doing.
But the billywigs quivering in his stomach are not unhappy ones and, as he moves off across the hall, he finds himself smiling once more.
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Slow writer here. This is apparently going to be a 5+1, so it might take a while to finish...It's also posted on AO3 with better formatting here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/8855563/chapters/20306392
Re: Fill: 1/6 part 2 (Real!Graves/Newt - Graves is good with animals)
(Anonymous) 2016-12-31 02:08 am (UTC)(link)