It's been more than two years since I've published anything and I'm almost embarrassed to admit how long I've been working on this particular piece, but considering I just graduated college with two jobs and a 4.0, I'm taking this as a win. This chapter is part one of seven; updates will be posted on Sundays simply to spite Uncle Vernon's belief that there *is* no post on Sundays. Hopefully I've done Jo's world justice. I hope you all enjoy.

December 8th - 9th, 1926

It is Tina who Disapparates them, in the end.

They stumble into existence on the rough-hewn plank floors of the sisters' brownstone, each bleeding from wounds that leave no stain. Hands grip elbows, clench palms, cradle wrists, knotting them together in snarls of jagged emotion; they do not yet release for fear that loosing those fetters would take them from three to two, and they've so recently gone from four to three. Rain is drumming against the windows in a pattern that taps "forget, forget" into the glass, and for a moment, they stand there, breath echoing in an arrhythmic scrape against the silence, bodies frozen as if one misstep will shatter what little peace remains in this last safe space. Newt clenches one fist around the worn, smooth handle of his case and breathes deep enough to send a sharp ache twisting through his chest. They've fought Grindelwald himself and survived – the fact that they're even standing here is a miracle.

But it's hollow without Jacob, he thinks, and damn MACUSA, damn Picquery, damn all of it, Jacob Kowalski deserves to be standing here too.

It is only when Queenie extricates herself from her sister's grip that he realizes his mistake. He has none of the mental diplomacy that comes from living with a Legilimens; he cannot erase the thought and his Occlumency is not strong enough to keep from broadcasting it. Queenie hears him, of that he's certain, and eases her elbow free of Tina's grasp to wander, half aimless and wholly downcast, into the kitchen.

Tina watches her go. Her fingers are still tangled with his own, he realizes belatedly, looking down to find her palm pressed flush with his. Her gaze is trained on her sister; she has not noticed that he hasn't yet let her go. The involuntary tightening of his grip snaps her from her daze and she glances up at him only long enough to realize their close proximity. Her fingers thread free of his in embarrassment, and she follows after her sister, nervously tucking wisps of hair behind her ears. The soft clatter of dishes from the kitchen indicates that Queenie has busied herself with cleaning up the remaining mess of two nights before; Tina's gentle entreaty of "Let me help, huh?" is the only thing he hears through the haze of sudden lightheadedness that seizes hold of his body. He sets his case on the floor with great care and eases himself onto the sofa, wondering why he feels so oddly bereft without the warmth of her hand in his.

Newt does not know how much time passes as he slumps boneless on the cushions. Tremors creep into his wrists, his fingers. He does not think his legs will support him if he tries to stand. His marrow is lead, his bones steel; the weight of them presses him back into the sofa. Iron bands have clamped about his chest, and every inhale drags the fabric of his shirt across tender flesh and electrical burns. He's never been in a duel, exactly, not outside of Defence classes; his creatures are clawed and fanged and venomed but they've never given him injuries of this sort. Paste for the bruises, he thinks. Perhaps a bit of Dittany and Murtlap essence for the burns. He's not quite sure what to do about the tightness in his chest or weakness of his muscles – Potions class was quite a long time ago, and he was always a bit distracted by his studies of magical creatures – but there should be something in his notes to treat the lingering effects of electrocution and stun curses, and if he can manage to locate his notebook, he should be able to find something to –

"Newt?"

He startles at the voice. A cursory glance upward reveals Tina Goldstein standing over him, holding a cup of something fragrant and steaming beneath his nose. Her features are marred by what appears to be mixed exhaustion and concern (and there is a part of him, a very small part, that wonders when he became able to tell the difference). He struggles up from his hunched position and forces trembling limbs to accept the cup.

"Drink this," she says. "You look like you need it."

(He has little hope that he doesn't look as terrible as he feels.)

The tea is hot and soothing on his tongue. It warms his throat and pools in his belly and the tension in his chest eases with its heat. He fights his twitching hands and attempts not to slosh the mug's contents onto the floor, but eventually the tremors become manageable and the buzz humming beneath his skin calms to a prickle of sensation. "Thank you," he murmurs, and he is able to meet her eyes long enough to see a weak, sad smile curve her lips. But then she is gone to tend the fire and he is left to sip his tea in silence, and he watches Queenie across the room as she stares vacantly into the rain, causing his chest to grow tight and his ribs to ache for an entirely different reason.

Oh Queenie. I am so, so sorry.

And once again, he curses his brain, because that was apparently the wrong thing to think.

Queenie stiffens and wraps her arms tight about herself as she steps away from the window. Her composure is intact but just barely; he watches her swipe a hand beneath one eye, then the other. "I'm kinda tired," she says, not looking up at Newt or her sister as she strides with resolute purpose towards the safety of her bedroom. "Think I'm gonna lie down for awhile, if that's all right?"

Tina starts toward her, but Queenie is long gone. The door slides shut just as Tina reaches it, her wounded "Queenie, please wait," bouncing off the wood panel to reverberate in her face. She pauses with one hand on the door. "Queenie?"

There is no answer from the other side. Newt watches Tina rest her forehead against the panel for just a moment before she gives up and lets herself slump into one of the chairs at the kitchen table, head falling into her hands. She pinches the bridge of her nose, defeat visible in every line of her frame.

What a bloody mess we are, he thinks, and feels a sharp pang echo behind his sternum. They are a collection of jagged fragments, each sharp and raw. He can only wonder if time will be enough to dull their edges.

He should go back to his creatures. He should go back to the only thing he's known, the only thing he's allowed himself to know since Leta burned too bright for the both of them and sent him tumbling down in flames. He shouldn't let himself get attached because thus far everything human he's touched has broken and he knows he cannot undo what has been done. But his wand is in his hand and the magic is so easy when nothing else is, and he places the conjured mug of black coffee on the table in front of Tina, watching as the steam curls to caress her face and she looks up at him with red-rimmed eyes.

"Take it," he says, falling into the seat beside her. "You look like you could use something too."

The smile she gives him, wan and cracked as it may be, warms a part of him that tea cannot touch.

She returns his notebook, later, after the coffee is gone and the fire has dimmed, having kept it safe in her pocket during the mess of Grindelwald and Credence. He takes it with a stammered "thank you" and tucks it into his overcoat, and if their fingers brush during the trade, they do not mention the warmth that passes between them or the inexplicable tug that keeps them here, at this table, when they have no reason to stay. He apologizes for his creatures and she apologizes for his attempted arrests, and they don't quite make eye contact in either conversation but that's all right. They sit there, in exhausted, grief-stained silence, until the thunder dies down and the lightning ceases flashing and it hurts a little less to breathe.

When the soft, ragged sounds of Queenie's sobbing slip through the crack beneath the bedroom door, he watches Tina fracture just a little bit more as she pleads with her sister to let her help, to let her in. He chokes on words he can't say and things he can't fix and retreats into his case to give them privacy, where he treats his wounds with Dittany and Murtlap essence and falls asleep gracelessly slumped at his desk. When he wakes, hours later, tense and aching and desperate for a glass of water, he emerges to silence and darkness and finds Tina curled into herself against the bedroom door, fast asleep, and something shifts inside his chest at the sight, something he can't explain that frightens him and warms him and slips through the gaps in his chest to curl beneath his ribs.

They are jagged, he thinks. They are glistening with smoke and ash. But they are not destroyed, and that's what matters.

He drapes an afghan over her and tucks it in tight. As he returns to his creatures, glass of water in hand, he tries not to think of how she leaned into his touch, or the salt tracks barely visible on her skin.

Reviews are a cup of cocoa and a slice of Queenie's strudel.