Chapter Text
He doesn’t need much, in all honesty.
He has his life, which is more than a lot of his fellow soldiers can say. He has a roof over his head. He has a job, unappealing and unfulfilling as it is, and enough to eat.
He doesn’t need much.
It doesn’t stop him from wanting.
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He wants to open his bakery.
He wants to be able to honor his grandmother’s memory. She taught him everything he knows about baking, after all -- what kind of flour to use to get the lightest, most tender crusts; how long to bake the baklava so the crunch settles just right; the perfect ratio of sugar to honey to balance out the tartness of blackberries. He wants to share what she taught him. He wants to share her love with the world.
He wants out of the cannery, too. It’s killing him by degrees. He’s wilting, there; he can endure it, if he has to, but he’s wilting as if he’s a houseplant in the midst of the desert. There’s no life, no joy, and he wants to find somewhere he can thrive.
He knows he doesn’t have much to offer the bank, but maybe, if he gets lucky, someone will see his potential, and show him some kindness. Maybe, for once, he’ll get what he wants.
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He wants to forget.
He feels like he’s in some kind of a nightmare. He’s been bitten by something like a sea-anemone with legs and too many teeth. He’s been accused of robbery, blinked across the bank like -- like magic, and now he’s got a concussion from half his apartment being blown up by whatever was in that case. He wants to have never met that fellow from England. Whatever is going on, it’s his fault, with his egg and his suitcase and his far-too-calm reaction to this.
Yet here Mister Suitcase comes, into his apartment, with some tall, no-nonsense woman, and again, he’s being dragged through the city with no choice of his own. They’re arguing about something, but he’s too out of it and dazed from the bite, and he thinks he might have a fever. It’s hard to concentrate on what they’re saying.
Forget forgetting. Right now, he wants a drink.
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He wants her.
It was embarrassing, walking in on a lady half-dressed like that; it wasn’t seemly. She hadn’t seemed to mind, though. She takes everything in stride, processing Mister Suitcase and himself like it was nothing, offering to feed them and put them up for the night. She can read his mind, too, but after all of the other strangeness, that doesn’t seem too out of place. She knows what he’s thinking, what he wants.
He wants her. Her body, yes, for what sane man wouldn’t? She’s a Mucha painting come to life, big eyes and smooth skin and sunshine curls and a smile that could light up all of New York, but there’s a kindness there, too, and a playful cheerfulness that leaves him breathless (although that could still be the bite talking). He wants her, but he wants all of her; he wants to know her desires and her thoughts, he wants to know how she takes her coffee and her favorite book, he wants to feel her body under his and he wants to hold her hand as they walk through the snow in Central Park.
He’s fascinated as he watches a strudel put itself together in midair, but it’s her he’s watching, not the pastry. She smiles at him, and while he wants her, he thinks, for a wild moment, that she may just want him, too.
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He wants to help.
There’s some -- creature, monster -- something tearing up the city, and Newt and Tina have already gone after it. She’s about to leave, too, leave him here helpless with a caseful of beasts -- Niffler, Erumpent, Bowtruckle, Occamy -- and he know he’s powerless, he has no magic -- obliviate the No-Maj -- but he wants to help, useless as he is.
It’s too dangerous, she says.
He knows it is, and he doesn’t want to let her go, either. He wants her to stay with him. He wants to protect her, even though he can’t. He wants to help his friends, but more than anything, he wants to keep her safe.
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He wants to remember.
He knows why he can’t. Rationally, he understands. His brain gets it. His heart doesn’t.
It’s raining; Frank conjured up some huge storm, and it’ll make the normal people forget. It’ll make him forget, if he steps into it.
He doesn’t want to forget. He likes magic; it’s fascinating, knowing that there’s a whole nother world just below the surface of the one he walks in. He wants to remember that. He wants to remember the beasts. The slender, serpentine Occamies; Dougal the Demiguise, clinging to him like a child; the Niffler, ridiculous and kleptomaniacal; and all the others, too many to name. He wants to learn more about them, wants to befriend them.
Friends. He wants to remember his friends. Tina, serious and responsible and brave. Newt, quiet, shy, but unmistakably kind; it takes a rare soul to look after all of those creatures, and Newt’s been a good friend in the short time they’ve known each other.
He wants to remember her.
She’s begging him not to go; they can run away together, go anywhere, do anything.
She deserves better than him. He’s not enough. He’s not magical, he’s nothing special. There are a million guys like him.
No, she says. There’s only one like you.
He wants to stay. He wants to remember.
He smiles, and steps into the rain.
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He wants, but he doesn’t know what.
He should be satisfied. He has his bakery, now, thanks to the mystery case -- and boy, will he ever be wondering who gave him that thing, full of silver eggshells; he has a new home, a new career, a new life.
He still wants.
The bakery’s been open for a couple of months now, and it’s quickly become one of the most popular places in the district. He’s been featured in the Times. Everyone loves his pastries and cakes and goodies, but what draws people are the desserts he bakes in fanciful shapes. Creatures that appear to him in his dreams -- Niffler, Erumpent, Bowtruckle, Occamy -- he turns into sweets. He wants to share them with the world.
It’s almost closing time. The bakery is still fairly full, people wandering through, picking out their purchases. He’s restocking the counter display case. He’s putting away some eclairs when he pauses, looks up to see a flash of pink coat.
She’s beautiful, the woman standing there. She’s a Mucha painting come to life, big eyes and smooth skin and sunshine curls and a smile that could light up all of New York, a smile that’s aimed at him. It’s a shy smile, but full of kindness and hope.
He wants her. He doesn’t know why, he’s never seen her before (though there’s something tugging at him, in the back of his thoughts, in a world of endless landscapes and impossible creatures), she’s too beautiful and kind for the likes of him, but he wants her.
She orders an apple strudel.
She smiles at him, that same breathtaking, hopeful smile, and while he wants her, he thinks, for a wild moment, that she may just want him, too.