Re: adrian's room: adrian m/newt p
[Crisply, amused.] It seems like a good start to any new relationship.
[It was a good question, and one that hadn't occurred to Adrian yet. Was it ethical to withhold that information? He nestled a little deeper, thinking. Eventually:] Case by case basis, I think. [He tipped his head back.] Everyone's anonymous. I think if you recognize the person, you should tell them. If you don't, then surely someone has already told them that their memory is out in the world. I'd rather not have the whole town coming to me to tell me they saw that sort of thing. A friend, yes. A stranger? No. [He smiled, faintly.] Everyone is different, however. Some people might feel safer, knowing.
[He watched another memory hit Newt. He didn't notice that hardness, not immediately, but there was something in the tone of Newt's voice that gave him pause. Adrian glanced down, and his brow shot up.] Better, then. [Good. Ethical or not, there was nothing they could do about it, and Newt deserved better than torture.
He had something on his lips - something about making good use of the night, if they had to stay awake - when the next wave of memories washed over him.
The first left him pale, as he had been when Newt came into the room. The sound of the boy being beaten, of wanting to be small, of wanting to reduce down to a speck, of the locked cell door, the unfamiliar voices speaking in other rooms. It left him shaken. He couldn't place the sensations, but the fear was familiar, clawing out of his chest. The green grass and the cells, the unearthly language - they could only point to one person. He was panicking, he realized, and he reigned it back, sat up straighter, took a long breath, readied an explanation for Newt -
When it was gone, he ran his fingers through Newt's hair, as if they still clung to brambles that meant safety and remove. He felt mad with it, even when it let him go, like it was running through his veins, a clear, dumb poison. He kissed Newt's temple, lightly, and he cupped the back of his head, reading his face as if they'd never met before.
Adrian wasn't frightened anymore. There were tears in his eyes, but he was angry. It was utterly unfamiliar. It burned in his throat like bile, sudden and intense, from nothing at all to absolutely fucking furious. He had a moment of wild fantasy, ugly and out of proportion - he wanted to dig the old man up and chop the head off the corpse with his shovel. He wanted to pick him up and dangle him until he cried. There was no sign of whipping blackness, no scent of ash and metal, just white hot anger, so thick he could almost taste it on his tongue.
He pushed it down, hard. It was visible. His expression softened, a tear spilled over, and he swallowed, once. There was nothing he could do with anger. There was nothing productive to make of it. The man in the memory was dead, but Newt was here.
He took a breath, and he pressed his forehead against Newt's. He wanted to be nearer to him, somehow get between him and the useless mad mother and rough hands that made him crush a small and vulnerable creature. Slowly:] You never told me what sort of man your father was. You said things were bad, and your mother was sick. But you didn't say what kind of bad. And I should have asked. [He looked down between them, at the nape of Newt's neck. He didn't try to meet his eyes, or make him feel as if he had to - he knew better than that.]
Unless you didn't want to say. And that's alright.