Re: Quicklog, Patrick's cabin: Patrick G/Newt P
[Whether because he was rather an odd-man-out himself, or simply because of inborn empathy, Newt'd always been concerned and involved with the plight of the underdog and the marginalized. Some would say it didn't count, with the creatures, but he thought it did. Several'd been trafficked originally, others endangered. In his mind—and perhaps only in his mind—flora and fauna and discrimination weren't quite so unrelated. He did, however, smile at the phrasing of 'most discriminated against,' finding it charming the way so many Americanisms were.] But you're still not at home, in—Arborlon? [Newt gave a quiet laugh, the sound of it absorbed in greenery, carbon dioxide exchanged for oxygen.] 'Short-tips,' is it? I rather like that. [He flashed Patrick a smile and it was solid ground, in place of quicksand.] I most certainly shall, [he said of red-tipped ears. And, he wasn't being facetious at all.
He gave a fringe-flopping nod.] Yes. Well. It can be many types of wood. Most're one type—the wand chooses the wizard, they say—but mine—[He pulled it out for demonstration.]—is ash and lime. [Pickett seemed just as pleased as Newt with this. And the man's wand really was unique. Or, as had also been said, a bit odd, like he was.] Ash wands tend to cleave to their original owners, and they tend to choose wizards who're not lightly swayed from their principles. Lime's an unusual wood, these days, having been used very much in the nineteenth century, as it was thought handsome and in vogue. Supposedly, it performs best for Seers and other mysterious sorts. [It was, no doubt, more information than Patrick'd ever wanted, but Newt was fond of sharing details.—Pickett was happy with Patrick's promise (and it was, to Pickett's mind, a promise), and Newt himself looked at the bowtruckle traipsed over the backs of his hands.] We've time.
[Inside the house that blossomed in the crutch of the tree, Newt was rather trying not to blush. He knew, of course, that Patrick, his patient, had a friendly personality, and he flirted with very nearly everyone. He told himself this, so he might ignored the slight suffusion of color to his cheeks—far from helped by the wink—, and respond dryly:] Terribly, if you keep that up. [Of course, he was still smiling bemusedly, even if he wouldn't meet Patrick's eye.—He'd busied himself, looking over Patrick's hand, his touch extraordinarily gentle, even as he palpitated, trying to feel the extent of the damage. He only stilled in his inspection at the mention of Sue. Amber eyes lifted, pupils traced in green, and Newt held Patrick's gaze.] What is it? [He gingerly released his hold on Patrick's hand and reached into the bag at his hip. Pickett went in search of insects.—Newt sought a minor potion and little vials jangled together. His expression was one of concentration, even when his gaze flicked again to Patrick.] With Daniel? Oh. No, I don't think so. [A brown glass vial was set beside Patrick's hand. Newt searched for a dropper in his satchel.] It has nothing to do with Daniel, really. I keep telling you, you know, it's not like that with Daniel, regardless. I like him and he's my friend, but we've slept together once. Open your hand for me.