Chapter Text
Newt frequently woke up unable to breathe.
Even months after the precursors had gone, even at the year mark, he would still wake up barely able to think straight, the image of his hands wrapped around Gottlieb’s throat fresh in his mind. It was always either that, or his precursor-infected self choking him, instead of the love of his life. Sometimes, they would be normal nightmares, ones of teeth and bone and red, glitching energy. Or blue, endless blue. But the outcome was always the same.
This was one of those very nights, and the shadows seemed to bite and snarl at him as he hissed his breath through his teeth, the tile of the bathroom floor cold against his knees. He refused to look in the mirror at these times.
Newt sat in the bathroom, the cold, dim light hurting his sensitive eyes. He leaned his forehead against the toilet seat, cold porcelain trying and failing to soothe the headache building behind his eyes.
There was the soft sound of muffled footsteps, the creak of the door.
“Newton?” His husband’s voice was rough with sleep, and he looked up at him with an expression of pure misery on his face. “Did you have another nightmare?” He asked softly, and he knelt beside him. Newt nodded wordlessly, leaned against his husband’s chest, then shuddering as a particularly bad wave of nausea rolled through him. “Do you want me to get you some water?” He asked, and he nodded.
Hermann filled a cup from the sink, handed it to him carefully. He took a cautious sip, and set the glass down. He would drink more of it if he felt like he could keep it down.
They sat there in silence, Gottlieb giving Newt a gentle look. “Newton, are you alright?” He asked quietly, rubbing his back.
”Yeah, I think I’m okay,” he said, his voice weak. His stomach lurched and he swallowed hard. Trying to regulate his breathing, he closed his eyes. “Oh god, Herms, I’m sorry, I’m-“ He took in a shaky breath and let it out in a heavy, panicked exhale. Once again, the image of his husband getting choked flashed by. That was all it took for him to be sick, his pulse racing and mouth dry as his husband rubbed his back. He tried to speak but threw up again, throat burning from the sensation.
“Shh, shh, you’re alright, dear. You’re okay, I love you,” Hermann soothed, and Newt reached for his water, taking a slow sip. His stomach felt unsteady, balking at the idea of water. He drank it anyway.
“Love you too,” Newt mumbled. Hermann kissed his forehead, rubbed his back in slow, methodical circles. “We’re okay,” He said. In that moment, in that desperate, fearful moment, he believed him.
”We’re okay,” Newt said back, taking both of his hands and leaning their foreheads together.
They were gonna be okay. He was sure of it.