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When Anathema decides to stay in the UK for a bit longer, Newt is very, very pleased. He's not trying to pressure her or anything--of course not, he's just enjoying his time at Jasmine Cottage for now--but he often thinks that it would be very nice if she stayed forever.
And then one Saturday afternoon, she invites Mr. Crowley and Mr. Fell over for tea. He was a little intimidated when he first saw the strange men at the airbase, but Anathema has kept in touch with them over the months--she calls them the "Supernatural Boyfriends"--and sitting across from them now, they don't seem as daunting as they did on the tarmac.
Well, that is, until they start talking to his girlfriend.
It's not a jealousy thing--they quite clearly only have eyes for each other--but they are talking to her about auras this and prophecy that, and it all kind of buzzes around his head like honey bees: he knows it's harmless, but he can't help but be nervous anyway.
There's a small lull in the conversation, and Newt thinks that they might finally be moving onto a more normal topic, like taxes or the weather, when Anathema selects one of Mr. Fell's mini tarts for herself and asks them, "So, how exactly does one get to Heaven?"
Newt, desperate to talk about anything else--he'd even settle for politics at this point--stammers, "I-I-I think there's a whole guide book for that, right?" And he laughs awkwardly.
Mr. Fell smiles at him, sympathetically. Mr. Crowley stares at him, blankly. (He can tell, even through the sunglasses, because it feels like those strange yellow eyes are boring holes through him.)
Anathema smiles the same slightly patronizing smile as Mr. Fell, and says, "That's not what I--"
"Y-yes, I know," Mr. Fell interjects. "It's quite difficult to explain, actually."
Anathema takes a sip of her tea and continues. "I mean, you have wings, right?"
Newt wants to say they have WHAT but before the signal travels from his brain to his mouth, Mr. Crowley is already speaking.
"That's not how they work," he says, as if that were the obvious response. "And anyway, you can't just catapult yourself into the atmosphere and end up in Heaven, you have to--"
Mr. Fell makes an annoyed sound as he takes a bite of a finger sandwich.
Mr. Crowley turns to him, equally but oppositely annoyed. "What?"
Mr. Fell dabs at his mouth with his napkin, and says, "It's correct that you can't just fling yourself into Heaven, but if you did want to get up into the atmosphere, you would need a trebuchet." He picks up his tea cup, and before he takes a sip, he continues. "Not a catapult."
Mr. Crowley looks at him, slightly bewildered.
"I--" Newt says, and immediately regrets it, because everyone has refocused their attention on him.
Anathema raises her eyebrows at him. It's a gentle look that he's come to interpret as if you dig yourself into a hole, I'm not getting you out.
He swallows, readies his metaphorical shovel, and continues. "I mean, technically, a catapult is for smaller objects over short distances. Trebuchets use a counterweight so you can theoretically throw any-sized thing over any distance you like." He pauses. "If you do all the maths correctly, anyway."
There's a moment of silence while Mr. Fell beams at him, and then he turns to Mr. Crowley. "See?"
With his mouth hanging slightly open, Mr. Crowley looks from Newt, to Mr. Fell, finally to Anathema. He points at Newt and says to her, "Yours too?"
"I just tell him it's a good thing he's cute," Anathema says, patting his leg softly. She does, with a genuine fondness, whenever he says something particularly pedantic. He's gotten cuter and cuter each time, apparently. His usual response, and his current response, is just to blush and move on.
"Anyway, as I was saying--" Mr. Crowley starts, but stops when he realizes Anathema seems very amused by Mr. Fell. He and Newt both turn their attention to his partner, who is looking at him, expectantly. "Stop that," he says to him.
"You don’t think I’m cute?" Mr. Fell pouts, a little dramatically.
Mr. Crowley leans in and stage-whispers, "I thought we said not in public."
"We are guests in someone’s home," Mr. Fell retorts, sounding very proper. "Would hardly call this public."
"You know what I’m ssssaying!" Mr. Crowley hisses.
They both do their best to look agitated with each other--Mr. Fell with a mildly insulted expression, Mr. Crowley rolling his eyes so much that Newt can actually see them above his sunglasses--but it's an extremely thin veneer over the kind of familiar, gentle teasing that happens when a couple has been together for so long.
Mr. Crowley opens his mouth to continue, but before he can, Mr. Fell pats him on the arm and says, "For the record, I think you're very cute too, dear."
Mr. Crowley's ears go a bit pink. "An-y-way," he says, over enunciating each syllable, "where were we?"
And instead of spending the rest of this very weird conversation utterly confused, Newt finds himself noticing the Supernatural Boyfriends exchanging brief but fond glances between bouts of bantering, and he wonders if that's what he and Anathema could be like in 20 years. He doesn't hate the idea, and when she quietly takes his hand under the table after a particularly affectionate look between them, he thinks that she doesn't entirely hate it either.