Capital Police Station, quicklog: Jack and Newt P
[It was not difficult to heal a gunshot wound. Newt would rather not say how he knew this, but he did. A handful of curative spells, an expulsion spell, a suture charm, and rest, that was the ticket. Muggles had nothing on magical healing, of course, and Newt, even in his panic, wasn't worried about the wounds themselves. He could treat those easily. He'd already thought through Apparating Jack into his case—the shed, where he'd taken Dahlia. He could offer some pain potions. He would set him to rights in a day.—No, what Newt was concerned about was something ambiguous, something poisonous and diaphanous on the edges of his consciousness. Loss? The potential for it? He didn't name it.
He focused. Here, among Muggles—and not of the strange ilk of Repose—he had to seem only eccentric enough to be entertaining. Anything more, and people got suspicious. He ran a hand through just-washed red, sending his fringe into frenzy, and he righted his blue wool coat. Long fingers brushed over bowtie. Newt was never one for presentation. He was too distracted for it. But, he did his best now, as he approached the police station.—His gaze flitted to the façade of the building. Its imposing size failed to awe him. What was considered old architecture in America, was a spring chicken compared to much of Britain.
Right. Okay. Deep breath. Newt entered the station with forward momentum. He'd a mind to go to the desk, not knowing what alternatives he had, when he saw Jack. Jack, in a hospital frock. He looked pale and disheveled, and Newt, who was no great betrayer of his own emotion, walked up to his brother and sought, as gingerly as possible—one-armed if need be—an embrace.] Jack, bloody hell. What've you been doing? [It wasn't in Newt's nature to worry himself with danger. He'd never shied from it himself. Perhaps it was just the shock of it all. Either way, the Penhaligon brothers hadn't hugged in their adult lives. (Or even as children, when Newt felt touch as pain.)]