Chapter Text
Now it’s big black cars, and Riviera views,
And your lover in the foyer doesn't even know you
And your secrets end up splashed on the news front page
~*~
It's ill-advised beyond belief. Actors don't interact with the general public beyond conventions and other such events.
Still, there's something about the police officer who shows up to help subdue a mob of screaming, groping fans that catches Newt Scamander’s attention.
“Thank you,” he manages to say before she gets back into the cruiser. He isn't even sure she notices him.
“No. Absolutely not,” he says in horror when his publicist, Seraphina Picquery, informs him a few days later that he’ll be taking Leta Lestrange as a date to the benefit banquet next month.
“It will be good publicity,” Seraphina insists. “Just a photo or two...”
“No.” Newt hates to act like a spoiled A-list actor, but honestly. Yes, he and Leta may have shared the same acting coach and attended the same workshops before either was famous, and they may have gone on two and a half ‘dates’ when they were both twenty-six. That does not mean that they're friends, or that he wants to be remotely associated with her.
“Fine,” Seraphina says, and it's painfully obvious that she's bemoaning his lack of a love life, “what alternative do you propose?”
“I could go alone,” he suggests the novel idea.
“You need a date, Newton.”
He thinks of the police officer from the other day. “Do you know who the cops were, the ones that broke up the fans the other day?”
Seraphina gapes. “You cannot possibly consider bringing a police officer as your date.”
Newt shrugs. The more he considers it, the more it seems a tremendous idea. Anyway, if his publicist isn't going to help with his objectively terrible plan, he’ll find someone who will. Namely, his trusted manager.
Leaving a distressed Seraphina behind, Newt walks off and calls Queenie Kowalski.
“Honey, no,” is Queenie’s instant response.
“So that's a yes, then,” Newt corrects her hopefully.
“I’ll be there in half an hour.”
That doesn't bode well. Resigning himself to his fate, Newt flops down on the bed and waits.
Queenie is in rare form.
“Jacob is a baker,” Newt points out once she’s sufficiently reminded him why this is a terrible idea.
“But I'm not an A-list celebrity!” Queenie sighs, standing akimbo and looking down at him. “Newt, you can't. I’ll find you another date, but you can't show up to a benefit banquet dressed to the nines with a police officer on your arm.”
“What if I like her? Am I not even allowed to talk to her?”
“It's not that simple!”
Newt hates being famous.
“By the way, you've gotta do something about your new agent,” Queenie adds, gathering her things. It would seem that this conversation, or at least this iteration of this conversation, is over. “She's been here two months and seems to think she's also your manager and publicist and possibly the president of the United States.”
“I rather liked her,” Newt argues.
“Please,” Queenie begs, then beams and kisses him on the cheek. “Bye, honey.”
Newt sighs; he supposes it’s on him to take his new agent down a notch and so, still preoccupied with thoughts of the mystery cop, he calls Percival Graves. It’s a dreadful name for a woman—given that it's for a man—but her parents were overly determined to honor both of their fathers, who were coincidentally named Percival, and she’s gone by Val ever since. Besides, Val says, she gets to take full advantage of sexism in the workplace when employers look at her resumé with the impression that she’s a male.
“Bad idea, pal,” Val tells him instantly, after insisting that he come meet her in person. He’s mildly frightened she intends to physically injure him. She’s smart as a whip and good at her job, but her intensity is just shy of intimidating. “Besides, what makes you think she’d like you?”
Well, she certainly doesn't mince words. Newt cringes. “I only...”
Val takes a gulp of coffee. Newt isn't so sure she should be having caffeine in the first place. “I know your kind,” she says, gesturing to him. “You're Mr. Suave for the movies and the cameras, but have you actually ever dated like a normal guy?”
“I...”
“Exactly.” She drops a stack of magazines on the desk with a thump. “Take a look at these.”
“Why?”
She eyes him over the top of her mug, which says “I Survived Another Meeting That Should Have Been An Email.” According to Newt’s sources, Val has a line-up of similarly themed coffee mugs which she rotates on a daily basis much the way some more style-inclined stars rotate ties or Italian shoes. “Maybe because it’d be nice for you, being the cover, to look at the damn magazine? Hurry up, though—they said they need any edits by the end of the day.”
“I don’t usually make edits,” Newt says in confusion.
Val claps him on the back. “Now you do. You’re welcome.”
“You do know you’re just my agent, right?” Newt calls as she grabs a pile of manila folders, thrusts them under her armpit, and strides off. Val waves dismissively with the hand still holding her cup—coffee flies everywhere, including a nearby intern's white blouse—rounds the corner, and disappears.
As luck would have it, Newt runs into the police officer at Starbucks two days later. She's standing in line looking tired and in desperate need of a pick me up when he enters. Newt cautiously removes his aviators and steps closer; nobody in the relatively vacant café seems to recognize him, so he decides it's safe to talk.
“Hello,” he says, smiling at her.
“What? Oh—hi,” she responds cautiously. Recognition doesn't dawn, or at least the sort of recognition that usually dawns, particularly amongst people of her demographic. Not that Newt assumes every woman is going to fall to her knees upon meeting him, but all modesty aside, he’s well aware that he’s one of the better known actors in the world.
“Newt Scamander,” Newt introduces himself.
“Tina Goldstein.” She gives a small smile, appears not to see his proffered hand, and turns back to squint at the menu.
Newt should give up, but he doesn't. When Tina goes to order, Newt cuts her off and slides his credit card to the barista. “It's on me,” he says.
Unlike Tina, the barista immediately identifies him and gets flustered. “You—y-you're—”
“Hello,” Newt says pleasantly.
“It's really fine,” Tina insists. The barista isn't even paying attention to anything, in favor of gaping at the celebrity—one of those fans, then—so Newt leans over and swipes his card.
“There we go,” he says, smiling again at Tina. This time she seems marginally less suspicious, which is encouraging.
“Sorry, I'm exhausted,” she admits. “I worked the graveyard shift three nights in a row.”
“It is very admirable, what you do,” Newt replies, and feels instantly stupid.
The thing is, for all his fame and adoring fans, Newt is just as awkward when he likes someone—not that he likes Tina, exactly—as any other guy. Possibly more. He essentially went straight from a freckly, unpopular, buck-toothed 12-year-old relying on puberty to be kind to him, to an award-winning coveted actor with far too many people fussing over ridiculous things like his diet and his shoelaces and his face—he was positively horrified the first time he had to wear makeup—and thus legitimate dating opportunities have been pretty thin on the ground. Half the time he can't tell if people are reacting positively to him because he's actually socially ept, or because he's famous. He's beginning to suspect the latter.
Due to a combination of his onscreen roles and diligent practice with Seraphina, Newt’s learned how to come across as the sort of down-to-earth, boy-next-door womanizer everyone swears is the magic bullet. Perhaps it is in the movie business, but on the streets it has proven to be distinctly lacking. Unfortunately, Tina is very pretty, and Newt doesn't know what to do with his limbs. He hopes she can't tell.
Tina looks... not exactly put off. “Thanks. And thanks for the...” She gestures to the coffee. Then, “Did you want anything?”
“No,” Newt lies, having forgotten that he walked in here for a reason.
Tina clearly doesn't buy it, and as she turns her head he's pretty sure he sees the tail end of a smirk. “Okay,” she says. “I’d offer to get you something, but I might make the barista over there jealous.”
“Ah.” Newt would honestly prefer Tina not knowing who he is (as dubious as it seems), but at least he can prevent her from recognizing the scope of his fame. “There are only a few of them. Mostly it’s, erm... a quiet life for me.”
“Really?” Tina raises an eyebrow. “Needing law enforcement intervention because you're being attacked by screaming fans doesn't seem very quiet, but maybe that's just me.”
So she does remember. Newt is about to respond when Tina nods towards the glass door. A mob of fans have gathered outside the Starbucks, barricaded by Newt’s security guard.
“Quiet, huh,” she says in amusement. She takes a sip of coffee, then moves to leave. “Good to meet you, Mr. Scamander.”
“Wait,” Newt says suddenly, and curses himself. This is a recipe for disaster if he's ever seen one. “Miss Goldstein.” Assuming she’s a Miss. Tina waits expectantly. “You wouldn't want to start your shift a bit early, would you?”
She takes one look at the chaos developing outside the coffee shop and understands. “Come on,” she says, shepherding him out the back door. “Cruiser’s just down here,” she adds. Newt hurries after her as they set down an alley, hiding behind bins to avoid being spotted. He feels about nine years old again, carefree and playing a game of cops and robbers. They reach the patrol car a few minutes later; Newt jumps into the passenger seat.
“No tinted windows,” he comments.
Tina glances over at him. “Yeah, we don't get a whole lotta celebrities in our cars. They go in the posh patrol cars, you know, the ones outfitted with foot spas and masseuses and free bottomless mimosas.”
“Really?” Newt asks, frowning.
Tina scoffs, but in a warm sort of way. “No. Are you kidding me?”
Newt starts to grin despite himself. He realizes that this is one of the first times in years that a non-celebrity has treated him like any other normal human being—that they haven't cared about his fame whatsoever. It's nice.
“Where to, Mr. Scamander?” Tina asks now.
“Wherever you would like to go,” he answers.
“What a gentleman,” she says dryly, then smiles. “Ever been in a police car with the siren on?”
Newt shakes his head. Two minutes later, they're speeding down the streets, sirens wailing. Cameras click and fans call out, but Newt is moving too fast and having too much fun to care.
Queenie and Seraphina corner Newt after Perez Hilton has a field day on his little excursion with the mystery cop.
“This ends now,” Seraphina asserts.
“I didn't even get her number,” Newt protests.
“Good!” Seraphina responds harshly. “Newton, you need to understand the gravity of the situation. As your publicist—”
Newt starts to snap. “Am I not allowed to have some semblance of a normal life?” he retorts.
“It isn’t even a matter of your image! It is about compatibility, and I regret to inform you that men with nine-figure net worths are not going to be compatible with a blue-collar worker from Manhattan!”
“I’d hate for you to get hurt, honey,” Queenie puts in quietly.
“She has no ties to the celebrity world, Newt,” Seraphina says. “Dating you would mean exposure to a lifestyle she has never come close to experiencing.”
“You did research on her,” Newt accuses Seraphina.
“We both did,” Queenie admits, and Newt bristles even more. “It’s our job.”
“It’s your job to cull every single woman I might want to date? To control my public image so much so that I am forced to socialize only with people who—”
“I don’t know what you want us to do, Newt!” Queenie cries. She looks genuinely distressed. “We care about you. We do. It’s just not a good idea, and someone’s gonna get hurt.”
“I did not ask for any of this!” Newt yells suddenly. “I wanted to act, yes, but I did not want to end up backed into a corner wherein I cannot have the life I would have been allowed to have, had I never become famous.”
“It is the cost of fame,” Seraphina says gravely.
It’s so frustrating. It isn’t that Newt intends to marry Tina. It isn’t that he’s in love with her. It’s just that she’s the first woman who’s ever remotely appealed to him in more than a decade of interviews and red carpets and makeup trailers. He likes the actresses he’s met, of course, and they have liked him, but he never felt the desire to know them better. As a celebrity, all of the first date questions have been answered a million times, printed in publications across the country, featured in countless documentaries and talk shows, and many famous women are reasonably guarded.
So while Newt has had his fair share of flings and brief affairs, nothing ever required him to actively “pursue” a woman, or to want to take her out to dinner and just talk like normal people. What he’s done with A-list actresses hasn’t been dating.
Newt wants to act. He needs to act. Acting runs in his blood. The problem is, frankly, he’s too damn good at it. He did go through some semblance of high school while managing a hectic filming schedule, but the second half of it had to be done through sporadic tutoring sessions, and when he returned to his old high school nothing was the same. Moving from Britain during his adolescent years hadn't helped him much in the way of making friends to start with; the second his name went up in lights all of his peers instantly wrote him off.
Once Newt hit eighteen, there was a brief reprieve during which he was given the option of attending college or launching his acting career in earnest. Truthfully, he was interested in zoology and has been from a young age. But family and friends talked him out of it, pointed out that ultimately acting would be the most profitable, and he had no idea what a future in zoology would look like. By the time he accepted the lead role in Hidden Waters and skyrocketed to the top of the charts, it was too late to turn back.
This business with Tina is a big deal when it shouldn’t be. Newt should be able to run into someone he likes and have a go, see if there’s anything there. To go on a date without paparazzi and bodyguards. To do all the things he should have been doing in his teens, but never got a chance to.
“Very well,” he says now to the concerned women before him.
“Good.” They heave twin sighs of relief.
“I’m sorry,” Queenie murmurs as Seraphina gathers up their things. “I’m real sorry, I am, but...”
“I understand,” Newt reassures her.
She musters a tight-lipped smile laced with sympathy, then follows Newt’s publicist out the door with an air of finality. The moment it swings shut, however, Newt calls Val and gets a car to meet her at the office.
“I gotta agree with them,” Val says ruefully. Newt is leaning up against her desk, arms crossed. “Excuse you,” she adds, reaching around him for her coffee mug. The difference between coffee and your opinion is that I asked for coffee. Newt appreciates that very much, being the target of unsolicited opinions every day. “There’s never a good time to get obsessed with a police officer.”
“I am not obsessed,” Newt clarifies. “It... would not be so important if I was not famous.”
“Your entire life would be different if you weren’t famous, Captain Obvious. But unfortunately, it’s not.”
“She didn’t treat me like I was famous, is the thing.”
“Oh? What a travesty.”
He didn’t mean it like that. “No, I—I appreciated it, very much.”
Val sighs and folds her hands on her desk. “I don’t know what you expect me to do about it.”
“I suppose I thought you might be slightly more inclined to help.”
Val spins around in her chair and leans back, looking up at her client in mingled exasperation and that same irritating sympathy that Queenie had expressed earlier. “Look, I’m here to make sure everything goes smoothly. I’m only supposed to be your agent, but if I’m being honest—and very few people like me being honest, but it’s my job, so you don’t have a choice—Seraphina and Queenie may be pretty and young and nice, but I don’t think they’re doing what’s best for you.”
“Exactly,” Newt says, “and what is best for me is to at least talk to Tina again.”
“I get it.” For some reason, Newt honestly believes she does. “But you gotta understand where we’re all coming from. The media backlash, not to mention the emotional backlash... and we both know you've never really dated.”
“Not particularly,” Newt admits. “Which is precisely the problem.”
Val cocks an eyebrow. “I hate to break it to you, but you got 99 problems and never having dated ain’t one of them. No, the point is, I’m also your emotional guardian, whether either of us likes it or not, and... it’s just not a good idea. From what I gather, Tina’s not the type to be super gung-ho about dating someone like you, even if she likes you.
“You’ve got two very different lives. If your relationship goes public—which it inevitably will—she’ll be pulled into the spotlight, and her career will suffer. Assuming she has the same passion for law enforcement as you do for acting, that won’t be an overly welcome change. If you like her this much... you won’t want to do that to her.”
Val is right. Dammit. The last thing Newt wants to do is to drag Tina away from her profession. He knows all too well what being in the public eye is like, and he’s clearly no fan of the lifestyle, so far be it from him to put an innocent party through that as well.
“Perhaps we could be friends,” he suggests cautiously.
Val scoffs. “Yeah, the number of times I’ve heard that in the biz... celebrities aren’t ‘just friends’ with people they want to date.”
“I could be,” Newt insists.
“Drop it, Newt,” Val replies firmly, and turns back to face her computer.
Newt does not want to come off as a stalker. He really doesn't. But at this point, if only to spite his fame in general, all bets are off. Worst case scenario he gets a restraining order. And so the very next day he shows up at the police station in sunglasses and a hoodie, hoping against hope that nobody will recognize him.
“Is Tina Goldstein here?” he asks the first person he sees.
They either don't notice or don't care who he is. “Yeah, she just finished her shift. I’ll get her.”
A minute later, Tina walks in looking confused and concerned. When she sees Newt, though, she relaxes marginally. “What are you doing here?”
“I would like to take you out to lunch, if I may,” Newt answers. TERRIBLE IDEA! his manager, agent, and publicist all scream in his head.
Tina appears surprised. “I, uh, don’t have a change of clothes.”
So... not a no. “It’s alright,” Newt reassures her. “You look very nice.”
“Thanks?” Tina says, although he thinks she blushes slightly. “Um... sure, let me get my stuff and we can go.” She falters. “You sure you wanna be seen in public, you know, with me?”
Newt hesitates too. It’s not that he doesn’t want to be seen with Tina in and of itself, but he knows that the media will go crazy if they witness this. “I can call ahead of time and ask to be let in the back door,” he decides. It’s an unfortunate necessity. That being said, the city is relatively accustomed to celebrities roaming the streets anyway, particularly establishments, many of which have private rooms for this purpose.
“Okay,” Tina agrees. “Are we walking?”
“Ah,” Newt says; for some reason he had forgotten to account for this tiny detail. “I don’t suppose you have a car?”
“No, and I think lunch with celebrities isn’t reason enough to steal one of the cruisers.”
“We will have to keep a low profile, then,” he advises her.
“Don’t you think your disguise might be a little overdone?” Tina asks, gesturing to his hoodie and glasses. “You look like you’re about to rob a bank.”
“No,” Newt says immediately. “Such things can never be overdone.”
“Right,” the police officer says dubiously, and pops into the back room to get her wallet and phone. Newt wonders briefly if he could get her number, but that’s definitely overstepping the ‘just friends’ line which he swore to Val he would not cross.
As they walk down the streets carefully, Newt is pretty sure that if anything, people think he’s a suspect being shepherded around by a cop. In fact, he mutters this to Tina, both of them realizing that this is an excellent cover. (Not that cops routinely take criminals on walking tours of the city, but it’ll pass as a last resort.) Accordingly, when someone stops and appears to recognize Newt, Tina grabs him by the elbow and roughly shoves him forward.
“Move,” she orders gruffly. It’s a convincing charade—the fan looks crestfallen—and the rest of the walk proceeds without incident.
Once they’re settled and safely inside the private room, Newt takes off his glasses and hoodie. Tina snorts when she sees that he’s impeccably dressed beneath it.
“What, do you have a photoshoot?” she asks in amusement.
“I am just very stylish,” Newt insists, adjusting his bowtie.
Tina smiles. “Of course.”
They go on to discuss a number of topics; Tina knows virtually nothing about Newt—she isn’t much of a media consumer, or so she claims—and he, of course, knows nothing about her. It’s incredibly refreshing. Granted, Tina asks questions that have been posed a million times in interviews, but Newt sincerely doesn’t mind answering them. They aren’t contrived, they’re not going up online, and Tina genuinely wants to know the answers.
“Do you ever wish you’d taken a different path?” Tina asks keenly over dessert.
“Frequently,” and there’s an understatement.
“What would you have done instead?”
“Well...”
Only Newt’s closest friends know about his interest in zoology. It isn’t as though it’s a taboo subject, or that it would damage his reputation, but there are some things he would rather not have broadcasted everywhere. If it got out, he would no doubt start receiving an influx of partnership offerings and interview requests and so on and so forth.
But Tina has no ulterior motives, and he highly doubts she’s going to go “leak” the contents of this conversation to People magazine, so Newt launches into an explanation. “I am glad to be where I am, but sometimes I... I do wonder what my life might have looked like, had I pursued a zoology degree,” he finishes. It occurs to him that he just spent nearly ten minutes expounding upon his passion.
Tina is nodding; she seems to have been interested the entire time, unlike most people. “That’s impressive,” she remarks. “I could see you doing research and working at a zoo.”
“Really?” It means more than it should.
“Yeah. You could still do it, you know.”
“It is... complicated.” They both fall silent, lost in thought. Then Newt looks up and asks, “What about yourself?”
Tina shrugs. “I guess I feel like anything other than law enforcement would be less... meaningful to me. I may not have the highest salary, but I know I’m making more of a difference in this world than I would’ve made otherwise.”
It's an honest and true statement. Even so, Newt can’t help feeling rather guilty about his implied lack of making a difference. “I suppose you partly answered my question, but have you ever reconsidered your career path?” he queries.
“I was actually a pretty good student,” Tina responds, looking uncomfortable to admit it. “I won a lot of awards, I skipped a couple grades, the whole nine. But then my parents died, and I was kind of on my own, you know... I was a legal adult then, and we didn’t have extended family. So I decided to get a criminal justice degree. I got through a four-year in two years, which was nice, and by the time I was twenty I was on the force.
“I have a friend, actually,” she remembers suddenly. “She’s in zoology and runs a lab out in Boston. I could introduce you if you want. It's only a four-hour drive from here, and I have Saturday off.”
“There would be a lot of moving parts,” Newt points out ruefully. Every time he does anything, he has to run it by his team, arrange transportation and security, and determine an entire itinerary. An impromptu trip to Boston would surely upset the entire balance, and he can only imagine the hassle it would be to rearrange his schedule.
“Right,” Tina says, then confesses, “I think I forgot you were famous for a second there.”
“That,” Newt responds fervently, “is the best thing anyone has ever said to me.” He pauses. “You have something on your—” He gestures to the chocolate on the corner of her lip.
Before Tina can wipe it off, her phone rings loudly. There’s been a massive vehicle collision and she’s being begged to come join the other units, which means that she’ll have to make a mad dash for the station and then somehow squeeze through the congested streets of Manhattan. “I’m so sorry,” she apologizes, scrambling to her feet. “I have to do this—”
Newt jumps up. “Can I come?” he asks urgently.
Her brow furrows. “Newt, I... I don’t think so.”
“If you would let me, I will not say a word. I just...” Want to see what it’s like to live a normal, non-famous life.
Tina looks torn, then gives up. “Fine,” she acquiesces. Newt grabs her hand, and together they sprint out the back door.
The collision is bad, involving four cars and blocking traffic in a major way. One driver is being transported to the hospital via Life Flight, two others are in critical condition, and as Tina leaps out of the car she sees firefighters and police struggling to wrench a crying woman from the most crumpled vehicle. They didn’t bring jaws of life, and the angle is such that it would have been equally difficult to extract the victim either way.
Without missing a beat, she races over to join the efforts. Newt, sitting frozen in the passenger seat, makes a split second, possibly poor decision and follows.
Nobody looks up; nobody recognizes him. Everyone’s muscles are straining hard, and in this moment he is just another person. A couple civilians have hopped out and are trying to help too, and with the combined efforts of the group, they are able to free the victim. The EMTs get her onto a backboard, fix her up with a cervical collar, and whisk her into the ambulance in two minutes flat. The back doors slam, the sirens wail: all that's left are three giant hunks of metal and honking traffic on either sides.
“What do we do now?” Newt asks Tina, panting from the exertion.
“They’re gonna move the debris and we’ve gotta collect statements from witnesses. And someone needs to get on traffic duty, because this is a huge problem,” Tina explains. Then she grimaces and tells Newt, “You should get back in the cruiser. All these parked cars, people can jump out if they want to. Last thing we need is another safety hazard.”
Newt knows when he’s beat. Public safety comes first, and so he makes his way back to the patrol car and shuts the door. Once inside, he glances down at his phone and realizes that he has 23 missed calls from Val, 18 missed calls from Queenie, and a whopping 30 from Seraphina. Good lord. He hasn’t checked his phone since he left for the station this afternoon.
“Where the hell are you?” Val demands when he calls her first.
“I’m at a car accident—”
“You’re in a car accident?!” she screeches. “Newt, what the—”
“No, I’m on the scene,” he hurriedly clarifies. “I...”
“Oh, god. So help me—you tracked down Tina, didn’t you.”
“...yes.”
“You’re in a patrol car, at the scene of an accident—which, incidentally, has been holding up the entire office coming back from their lunch break. Are you kidding me?”
“It was only lunch,” he defends himself. “She was off duty.”
“Why on earth would you follow her there?”
“I wanted to,” is all he can come up with, and he cringes because he knows how spoiled that makes him sound.
“Yeah, this is a situation for Queenie and Seraphina to deal with,” Val says. “Call them.” With that, she hangs up. Sighing, and peering anxiously over the dashboard—Tina has joined a few other cops in waving cars through one by one—Newt calls his manager.
“Newt?” Queenie says before the phone can even ring once.
“Hello,” he greets her warily.
“You better have a real good reason to have missed your interview this afternoon.”
Shit. He forgot about that. A good reason... “I had a date,” he informs her.
He can practically hear Queenie’s jaw drop. “Are you kidding me? With Tina?”
“With somebody.”
“Oh, honey. Don’t do this,” she pleads.
“Do what?” He swears he’s more mature than this, he really is. But this is ridiculous.
“How soon can you get back here?”
“It depends on when Tina can leave.”
“I can send a car.”
Newt assesses the scene. Nobody’s getting anywhere anytime soon. By the time a car could make it, Tina will probably already be back at the station. He tells Queenie, who can’t refute the facts.
“I’ll tell them you got sick. Which means,” she adds menacingly, “no pictures.”
“No pictures,” Newt pledges.
“Hide in the back seat if you have to, but this is way too much to handle right now. Seraphina’s having issues with Leta’s team.”
“Excellent,” Newt says cheerfully.
“Not excellent, we need someone else to go with you.”
“Well, I haven’t the faintest.”
“We’ll have a think tank later with Val. You didn’t happen to talk to her, did you?”
“Ah. Yes.”
“...please tell me she did not approve of you finding Tina.”
“Just a smidge. It wasn’t approval, exactly. It was, erm... tacit agreement.”
“Tacit—Newt!”
“Must go,” he says quickly, and hangs up.