Re: [ER: Newt & Patrick]
"They do," Patrick offered of men and their manes, his tone most sagacious. His fingers twitched, and the dude was going to touch the ginger that Newt was toying with. He, of course, chickened out, and then he did the thing Patrick usually did when frightened: he pushed past it, and he tugged on the curl after Newt dropped his hand. His friendship with Newt, in the past, had involved all the usual bro-physicality. Clapped hands on Newt's shoulder, shoulders bumped, outer thighs touching when spread wide. It had not involved tugging on Newt's curls, but, the dude managed, and then he let his arm fall. "But I am not sure gingers count as mane possessors," which was a truly ridiculous sentence to Patrick's mind, since lions were of a similar color. It was a simple kind of teasing, and Patrick would have been in agreement that smiling and teasing was not remiss, even in the darkest of times.
"I imagine you read a lot, man. Many books. Big ones, dusty ones with leather covers. I imagine you drink many cups of tea. I imagine you plant seeds, maybe, and perhaps do a bit of light gardening. I suspect you spend the majority of your time writing about creatures you have taken pictures of from afar or researched in equally dusty libraries." This was an exaggeration, but not overly so. Patrick did view Newt most entirely as an academic, and he had as hard a time envisioning Newt's free time as he had imagining Adrian and Connie and their lives in their labs. But thought about labs was unexpectedly displaced by Newt's rakish grin. "Am I going to be surprised? Do you mean to tell me I have been mistaken for years?" He was interested, and given the amount of medication in his system and the malaise in his head, interest was a very good (and surprising) thing.
"I would like to see them, the thestrals. Things with wings are generally most terrible news back home," he explained. He had seen people die; the police academy took care of this most quickly. But, too, "when I was a teenager, there was an accident. A car accident. It was most terrible, and I remember thinking we were going to die. It was Con and I, and I was sure of it. There was no way we could survive it. I knew this. And then I woke up and was home and nothing had occurred. It was the first time I knew something was most fucked up with my sis," he explained. He had never told that story, man, and it had eaten at him for a most severely long time. "I was fifteen, and I believe I died and she fucked with time. So, there is my story," which was offered with a casualness that he had absolutely not felt at the time. "I asked, and Con would not say anything, and I believed I was crazy." He squeezed Newt's fingers. "I am most glad the merpeople found you. Did you ever attempt this again?"
The offer of obliviation, which Patrick took to mean forgetfulness and not death, was most appreciated, but Patrick shook his head. "Adrian would just do it again," he said knowingly. Somehow, he knew this. He was currently attempting to count the freckles on the back of the hand he held in his. "I rescued the child of Snow White's Huntsman in order to help her, hopefully, eventually destroy the Evil Queen. I have come a long way about fantastical things. I would like to see dragons. I would like to see your suitcase, not just the ladder, and I would like to see your world." Which, all things considered, was most forward-looking for a suicidal dude.