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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: Precedent (Gen)
(Anonymous) 2016-11-27 09:39 pm (UTC)(link)It's been a rough few months.
He's been traveling. Near and far and near again. Meant to go back home and stay put for a while, but just... couldn't. Not after all that. There's a lot of world to see – even if some of it is a repeat, no place is ever exactly the same twice, and he accepts these excuses from himself instead of wondering too hard why his head starts buzzing and his hands start tingling if he tries to stay in the same building for more than a week or two.
Sometimes he writes letters to Tina and Queenie. Sometimes he even sends them.
He doesn't bother making excuses to himself about why he hasn't made any new (human) friends. It's not a thing he goes out of his way to do, never has been. He never quite gets around to answering the sisters' questions about any interesting people he may have met, and eventually they stop asking.
Loneliness never even occurs to him. He has the creatures. Pickett in particular is always around, clinging to him obstinately, ready to start an argument at any given moment, tugging at his hair any time he manages to forget himself in the increasingly complicated daily feeding schedule, chattering in mingled annoyance and concern when he throws himself to the ground in the middle of the night in a desperate bid to escape – to escape – (dragon fire, enveloping darkness, excruciating pain, the screams of children who deserved better)
Well, it's something different every time. He tries not to think about it.
A rough few months.
He prefers to think of it in smaller, more easily digestible chunks. A rough week. A rough couple of days. A rough night. They just keep happening one after another, that's all.
Today is just a rough day.
He tries to be polite and sociable and normal in the apothecary, he really does. If only to expedite the process.
There are so many rules, is the thing. Rules about eye contact and physical proximity and tone of voice, and stance and posture and volume, and – it's all so much easier with the creatures and he's never been able to completely figure out why. Partly it's that it's all so much more straightforward. People are willing to accept that there are Rules for interacting with creatures, but so many of those same people will then turn around and try to pretend that there are no such Rules about interacting with people. That it's all just instinct and everyone knows it all, so deeply and intrinsically that there is nothing to know.
He's not sure if he's standing too close to the counter, or too far away from the person behind him in the queue, or both, or the other way around. And still both. He fumbles with his money, one hand gripped tightly around the handle of his case. Holds his breath while he waits for his change, doesn't meet anyone's eye because there are, in particular, so many capital-R Rules about eye contact and it's often safer just to disengage completely rather than risk accidentally staring down a stranger.
Change. Right. Thank the apothecarist. In English. Well, a mumble is better than nothing. Put the change in the bag, put the rest of the money in the bag, sort it out later. Don't look at anyone. Don't look. Everyone's staring. (No, they're not.) (Some of them are.)
"Bit weird, that one," someone mutters.
"Drunk," someone else suggests.
Newt laughs, involuntarily, and says "I wish," before he can stop himself, before he even knows he's going to say it or why. Realizes he's broken another rule: he is supposed to pretend he doesn't hear what people say about him. Right.
Nervous laughter among the small crowd of shoppers. Newt is still keeping his eyes trained downward, focused on his path out, so he sees the young child being pulled subtly to safety behind a set of longer legs. Out of harm's way. So the strange man can't see you, dear.
Projecting, Newt thinks dimly, already out the door and walking briskly down the street. Still can't bring himself to look up. He bumps into people, can't help it, really tries not to but there are so many and everything suddenly feels so very, very fast. Pickett is chittering worriedly in his ear. He keeps a tight hold on his bag and a tighter hold on the case. (Shouldn't have brought it with him.) (Couldn't have left it behind.)
He mumbles apologies, gets a few back. Mostly people just swear at him. His fault. My fault, he tries to say, casual, above a whisper, can't make a sound. Can't look at anybody. His breath catches in his throat.
He needs to stop being around people. He needs to stop being around people right now.
Apparating in this state is a bad idea. He makes it back on foot, locks the door behind him and stares around the rented flat and tries to think the word home. It sparks no reaction whatsoever. Positive, negative. Nothing.
He checks and resets the security charms. (He's always been reasonably careful, or so he tells himself. Lately he's just... more proactive.)
"Home," he says aloud. Still nothing. "Indoors, anyway," he amends, trying to sound cheerful for Pickett's sake. And possibly his own.
Pickett gives him an unimpressed look.
"I'm trying," Newt snaps, stops himself, deep breath. "Sorry," he mutters.
His eyes are burning. He shuts them. He felt this coming on, out in the street, maybe even back at the shop. It's getting harder to breathe.
"I miss –" he says, and stops, because it is a revelation by itself. He misses. "I miss Jacob," he says, admits, voice ragged, gulps down air. "I miss – Leta."
He claps a hand over his mouth, muffling the onslaught of sobs brought forth by four separate realizations: I miss – I miss Jacob – I miss Leta – I miss them–
Today is already off schedule. He knows he needs to be down in the case, looking after the creatures. Taking care of things. Of them. (Of himself.)
He also knows, from experience, that he will be useless until this is out of his system.
Pickett is cooing at him frantically, attempting to be comforting but mostly just sounding upset.
"I'll be all right," Newt whispers. To Pickett. To himself. To the empty room.
He lies down on the mostly unused bed (there are better places to sleep) and curls into a ball. The sobs rip through him now, and he lets them. Gasps for breath, wraps his arms around himself and wills his head to stop swimming.
He is not alarmed. There is precedent for this. The fact is Newt is, himself, a person, and he's not very good at those, but he's had his whole life to study his own case. He knows how to weather these things.
He'll be fine.
He has to be fine.
Someone's got to feed the mooncalves.
Re: Fill: Precedent (Gen)
(Anonymous) 2016-11-27 10:19 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: Precedent (Gen)
(Anonymous) 2016-11-27 10:28 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: Precedent (Gen)
(Anonymous) 2016-11-28 12:40 am (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: Precedent (Gen)
(Anonymous) 2016-11-28 01:37 am (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: Precedent (Gen)
(Anonymous) 2016-11-28 06:08 am (UTC)(link)I love that. This is so well written and sad and wonderful all at once <3
Re: Fill: Precedent (Gen)
(Anonymous) 2016-12-06 12:42 am (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: Precedent (Gen)
(Anonymous) 2016-12-06 07:50 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: Precedent (Gen)
(Anonymous) 2017-01-07 07:21 am (UTC)(link)