Re: Capital Police Station, quicklog: Jack and Newt P
[There existed in Newt's memory one or two moments of affection. They didn't include the physical, no. But, he hadn't liked to be touched. But, he did recall, sitting with their mother, on the bed she practically relegated herself to. He laid beside her, while she was under the blanket. He couldn't've been more than seven. She'd just been sleeping, but she woke, slowly, the world coming to her blearily as eyes opened. And she'd not shooed him. No, she'd let him stay there as she drifted in and out of her slumber. She'd smiled at him, and, she lifted her hand under the blanket to take his, the duvet acting as a buffer. If he recalled correctly, Newt'd fallen asleep himself. It was a small blip of a moment, but, for whatever reason, it'd stuck with him. The smell of the linen, the dust, how her hair flowed onto the pillow beside her like the river Pyriphlegethon. Which he knew, and had memorized, as it looked, he thought, like his last name.
There was no flashback as he hugged Jack, of course. Newt was present, the world existing only barely outside of these moments, as his rather ape-like brain tried to evaluate how serious this all was.
Blanched beneath freckles, Newt reeled back from the embrace, trying to get a bit of a hold of himself. He rocked onto his heels in skinny, brown boots. His smile was a fragment in reflection, offered back at Jack, and he bolstered himself. He started toward the street, assuming his brother was with him. With a frankness that revealed itself at times, beneath the ephemera of eccentricity and softness, he asked the other man:] How many bullets? [He was already putting together a list of necessary ingredients for potions.] Are you hungry? [And, assuming they were far enough out of earshot, outside of the building even, as Newt tucked into the wind that blew, he spoke again.] I'd like to take you to my case. But, you tell me what you'd prefer. If you'd rather I take you home, that's fine.