Disclaimer: No, I don't own Fantastic Beasts, but I would very much like to adopt Theseus before Rowling decides to kill him off. *Hugs both Scamander boys close*

Dismal, ill-lit, and dusty. If this is the safe house according to Theseus' directions, it's surely an indication that the obsessive tidier must have cracked his head on the stone steps of the Lestrange tomb. The chandelier overhead is sheeted in cobwebs. Cherrywood bookshelves sag, their contents crumbling with mildew. The parlor table is grey with a thick coat of dust. Even the floorboards groan under Newt's cautious tread.

No. Theseus would never meet him here. A position in the Ministry equates comfort, and Theseus has often expressed how much he hates the dank, dim tunnels of the London subway. He would never choose a decrepit structure for an emergency meeting.

"Newt!"

The relieved voice makes Newt question his skepticism. He turns around, startled, to see his brother standing at the top of the broken staircase. Carefully avoiding the disjointed steps, Theseus patters down with the ease of a man sauntering into his office.

"I wasn't sure you would receive my message," he says, ducking under a filmy strand of cobweb. "You're hard to track down when you don't want to be found."

"I always keep the floo open," Newt says, pulling a crisp, slightly singed envelope from his pocket. "You know how to reach me."

Theseus falters for the breadth of one step before he shakes his head, an easy smile lightening his eyes. "Newt, you never change. Come here."

The loose, beckoning invitation into an embrace is almost a perfect mimicry, but Newt knows Theseus better. Badgers are stubborn and a tad clingy, if his brother's House sorting is any indication. Theseus wouldn't have waited for Newt to turn him down. He would have stepped forward, neither chasing nor cornering, but inexorably, unfailingly drawing Newt into a fierce hug until all of his pent worries were expended.

Smiling grimly, Newt takes one step back.

"What is it?" Theseus queries with an awkward chuckle. "Can't a brother express his affection? There's no one here to feel embarrassed about."

"It's a good impression," Newt admits, slipping a hand into his wand pocket, "But you really don't know anything about Theseus, do you?"

The expression smooths over into an impeccable version of Theseus' tight-lipped, 'I hate board meetings but I'm incredibly tolerant and polite' scowl. "You really can't make anything easy, can you?"

"'Expect a lot of politics, make sure you don't leave your creatures unattended,'" Newt reiterates satirically, crumpling the letter in his fist. "Theseus would never assume that I would leave them behind."

"And yet you're here without your case," the imposter remarks. The friendly ease has left his stance. He steps idly to the side, his right hand hovering by his suit lapel. They're both lingering, waiting for the moment to strike first.

"I left it..." Newt hesitates, and leaves the rest unsaid. 'With a friend,' or even 'In safe hands' might inevitably lead someone to Bunty. Suspecting an odd note in Theseus' communications, he had offered to pay her overtime to look after the case for one night. Most of the creatures need a midnight feeding; it was quite a lot to ask. Thank heavens Bunty had a free weekend. He only needs to guard himself this time.

Lightning quick, the imposter snatches for his wand and darts to the right, blue light flashing by Newt's shoulder as he parries with a stunning spell. Keep to the basics. Nothing fancy. Theatrics will get you killed while the simplest spells may prove adequate.

The imposter easily foils his disarming spell and shatters the dusty table with some nasty rendition of an Expulso. Dodging splinters, Newt empties one of the bookshelves into a hurricane of molding, water stained paper. The image of Theseus - impersonation or not - batting aside a small library of vicious parchment is one that he'll laugh over for a long while - if he makes it out of here alive.

Scampering behind the stairwell, temporarily sheltered by the rickety steps, Newt murmurs a hasty "Confringo" at the chain links of the tarnished chandelier. Crumbling with a spray of decaying plaster, the heavy metal frame hurdles to the floor in a cascade of glass and house spiders. Immediately the imposter rolls to a crouch, narrowly avoiding a crushing death, and pulverizes the staircase in a howling whirl of brittle wood. Newt is already scuttling to the far end of the parlor, emptying a china cabinet and whipping the Persian rug out from under the imposter's feet. Caught between glass shards and billowing parchment, it takes one snap of fabric to send the imposter to his knees.

Ducking around the parlor entrance, Newt looks back briefly and smirks. "And that's why my brother doesn't bother tracking me down."

It's simply too messy, but then, if not for the accumulated costs in property damage, Theseus would continue to badger him. He always wins. Even if this man is an imposter, it's been a pleasure outwitting him. A snarling, cantankerous older brother is an image that Newt won't easily forget. Grinning faintly, he ducks around the corner and sprints for the open door.

The worn leather of his shoe brushes wood, gathering momentum for yet one more spring that will carry him to the warm glow of lantern light. The hideous chuff of rotting pulp startles him just before his foot plunges through empty air. Yelping, carried on the velocity of his stride, Newt can only fling out his arms as the floorboard crumbles, gouging into his shin, savagely wrenching his ankle, before his elbows smash into the floor and he ricochets to the left, barely avoiding a pulped nose.

Streaks of hot agony grip his leg and he rolls upright, hollering as he clutches at the swelling, throbbing mess that he's made of his shin. Instantaneously his ankle explodes, robbing him of his breath. If he hasn't snapped it in half then it's definitely a sprain, a very bad sprain, and he's had enough to know he's not walking out of this one. He's pinned to the floorboards just shy of the door, three feet away from the open night, his wand lying just out of reach. Though he strains, howling as he stretches his trapped limb, his fingers barely brush the smooth rod before it rolls into the patch of moonlight streaming through the doorway.

Straight into the toe of an immaculately shined black shoe.

Giddiness encompassing his pain, Newt cranes his neck to view the tall figure in the doorway and chuckles raggedly. "Can't stop hovering for a moment, can you, Theseus."

It's only a hint of their usual banter, but it says everything. I could've handled it myself. You're always looking over my shoulder, aren't you?

I'm glad you're here.

Dropping slowly to one knee Theseus plucks up his brother's wand and rolls it between his fingers. Newt knows that implacable expression. There's a nundu hunched in the doorway, the most feared among all four-legged beasts, and one man will bear the brunt of his silent, deadly wrath.

Sometimes being a younger brother is far too terrible a responsibility. Newt feels only pity for Abernathy as the man fearlessly traipses from the parlor, his disguise leeching away from his sardonic, pleased face.

"Always troublesome, weren't you?" the former MACUSA agent prattles, too focused on the mouse in the trap to notice the cat perched on the threshold. "But Queenie was right; you're never quite aware of your surroundings."

"Seems a common problem," Newt grates out between clenched teeth. "You should probably know that my brother enforced new security measures for polyjuice sightings ever since I tried to sneak into the Lestrange vault."

Movement in the doorway snaps Abernathy to attention and he blanches, flinching back against the doorway. His eyes flicker to Newt and his wand twitches as he gauges his options.

"Don't make this messy," Theseus says softly. "Set down your wand and back away three paces."

The gleam in Abernathy's eyes speaks for his intentions, and if not for the grimness of his situation Newt would have rolled his eyes. No one ever listens to Theseus (not that he admits this from experience). He can't even throw himself aside as Abernathy lunges forward, grasping for his head while repelling Theseus' wordless spell. Gritting his teeth as fingers savagely yank on his hair, Newt rolls onto his back and digs his fingers into Abernathy's wrist. Honestly, for a man who knows Theseus so well, one would think he would rationalize that the younger brother works with dangerous creatures on a routine basis. Losing hair to a squalling murtlap is an occupational hazard. Thrusting both hands upward, Newt springs the human claws free and immediately seizes the offending limb, tackling it in a roll that yanks his leg free and spurs him to the edge of darkness. There's another clash of light, a guttural scream as one of Theseus' spells finds its target, and a fluttering spiral of sloppy apparation.

Silence, broken by raspy breaths, and the clatter of polished shoes.

"Newt." Gripping his brother's shoulder, Theseus shakes gently and rolls him upright. Professionally unfazed by the terse moan and disheveled state, as usual. Briefly Newt considers that throwing himself into perilous environments has become too predictable for his family's mental lucidity. Although perhaps he's not all that lucid himself, given that he's currently batting away his older brother like a child instead of rationally telling him to back off.

"Is it just the leg?" Theseus prods, glazing his wand over the throbbing limb. "Newt. Did he harm you?"

"Knew you wouldn't meet me here," Newt grates out, cursing as his brother jiggles his leg experimentally. "S'not clean enough."

"Structurally unsound," Theseus corrects, palpating Newt's ankle gingerly before immobilizing the entire leg in a gentle levitation spell. "Nothing's broken; just a nasty sprain. If you knew it wasn't me, then why did you risk yourself? Don't you realize that it's only a matter of time before Grindelwald tires of your popping up everywhere and puts a price on your head so high that Dumbledore himself might be tempted to hand over your obnoxious hide!"

"I thought it might be Queenie," Newt says softly, and no, it's not disappointment jarring his voice. It's just the aftershock of nearly breaking his leg in a stupid floorboard. "I thought she would be the only one to think of - "

"Think of using me against you?" Theseus sighs, rolling his eyes as he hauls his brother upright. "Have you ever considered that I have far more enemies than yourself, and perhaps one of them might understand familial attachments?"

"That might not have equated into my theory," Newt admits. He grimaces as they move forward, Theseus shortening his strides to match his brother's short hops. It's not the most undignifying position Newt has found himself in lately. It's been nearly a year since he mis-apparated into his brother's office, half-singed and bewildered, the smell of smoke and train sparks still lingering on his coat. Nevermind that the Ministry nearly went into lockdown after an unexpected wizard apparated into a secure office mere hours after Grindelwald's capture - Theseus nearly had a bloody conniption. He'd been a bit bearish ever since.

"One of these days, you are going to write to Mother," Theseus warns, casting Newt a dour look. "She doesn't know what you're up to half the time. Do you know how difficult it is to gloss over an Obscurial incursion? I can't blame everything on those creatures you cosset!"

"Mother doesn't need to know," Newt says wearily. It's not like they haven't discussed this half a dozen times in the last six months. "She never sticks her nose in your affairs."

"She understands the risks involved in the Ministry," Theseus retorts with the predictable edge of irritability. "And I keep in contact. I don't skulk around North America with an archaic floo system and an ordinary pocket watch. You couldn't even write her for Christmas last year!"

"Got busy," Newt mumbles. Obliviating one's only Muggle friend tends to put a damper on the holiday spirit.

"Can you at least try to communicate with me before taking on any more mad wizards?" Pausing under the chipped door frame, Theseus stares until Newt is forced to look away. "Don't make me identify your body, Newt. Don't do that to me."

No. Not after he watched Leta disintegrate in her family tomb. Not after that. Mutely Newt nods. He feels the relief leech into his brother's shoulders, before Theseus curtly dips his head.

"Right, then. Saint Mungo's it is. You're lucky it's an ordinary sprain this time; I've run out of cover stories for the Erumpet."

"You'll always think of something," Newt muses before the sagging, decrepit structure swirls into the sterilized, bustling halls of the local wizarding hospital. At least he has one consolation. No matter how avidly he protests, Theseus will always be there for him. With a hug, with a lecture, with a splint and a bandage and an incredible fabrication that can fool the most stauch professor. The same absent brother who shepherded him through school until he could no longer stay will always be there, badgering him until he's safely penned away at a desk job in the heart of the Ministry, safe from all possible harm.

He has to be.

Because Newt can't imagine a world without his older brother watching over his shoulder.