Chapter Text
Newt knows Credence’s order before he even steps up to the register; he eases aside his fellow barista Jacob to take to the register, smiling brightly at the black-haired boy. “Caramel macchiato?” he asks and Credence nods silently, watching Newt scrawl his name in Sharpie on the cup and process his gold-coloured Starbucks card. “It’ll be just a minute,” he says, though he’s said it so many times that Credence doesn’t need to be told – he just waits, watching Newt make his coffee, face taut with concentration until he looks up, placing the cup on the counter and placing a sleeve on it, knowing that Credence is sensitive and burns himself in seconds if he’s not careful. It’s a routine of affection.
“Your coffee’s ready,” Newt says uselessly, but he says it anyway. Credence nods and takes it, shuffling out of the shop. He’s been buying coffee at Starbucks every morning at the same time for at least a month, so routinely that Newt could probably have Credence’s macchiato made and ready for him the second he walks in the door, but he keeps the routine, knowing that Credence likes it that way. He wishes he could muster his courage and say something to Newt beyond nods and confirmations – Newt has spoken before, introduced himself, made comments to Credence on the state of the weather and other such things, but never pushes Credence to say anything back, just smiles at him like he means it, or like he hears the replies that never leave Credence’s mind.
Credence drinks his coffee on his way to the library, the city abuzz with people on their way to work or school. He’s not going anywhere, his college course not due to start for another few weeks, but he wakes early out of habit and out of needing to usher his siblings to school, so he keeps his mornings busy by drinking coffee and reading. He also likes walking through New York in the mornings – it might be packed with people, but he likes being able to disappear into the crowd and watch them all pass, wondering where they’re going, where they work, if they go to school, who they are, if they have names more or less boring than Newt or Credence. Plus, the air is always at least mildly crisp, allowing him to bundle up in his black coat, at least for a while.
He reaches the library and drops his drained macchiato into the bin, hurrying inside. He loves the library, its rows and rows of bookcases that stretch up to the glass ceiling, embossed titles shining gold in the fluorescent lighting. He reaches into his speckled grey messenger bag, taking out the books he’s just finished and returning them through the computers. He’s glad the library is computerised like this – it keeps him from having to speak to the librarians unless he has to, ensuring that his gentle mornings aren’t stirred by anxiety. Once he places his books in the bins, trying not to make too much noise despite the sonorous clang! of the metal flap opening, he begins to walk. He knows where everything is by now, the filing system of the library ingrained in his passive mind, but he still finds himself wandering, looking at the titles on the spines, wondering if any of them will catch his attention.
He finds himself, as he always does, in the young adult section. Credence’s literacy skills would be far better utilised on other books – he could read classics easily – but he always ends up reading young adult fiction. Something about it strikes him: the way emotions are laid bare, the way things are easy to understand, the way he doesn’t have to flick back and read through the lines, the way that people get together and have happy endings. He doesn’t know what that feels like. He wishes he did.
He picks up a book he hasn’t read before but that’s been interesting him for a long while and sits down on the sofa – he wonders why they have comfy seats in the YA section but nowhere else – sitting pin-straight while he reads, the only time he ever has proper posture, only leaning over when he gets drawn in, slowly hunching himself over, engrossed in the pages – he loses the time, the hours, the minutes so easily, only disrupted when he hears somebody knocking something over, and a very familiar voice: “Oh dear – I’m very sorry – oh dear, please excuse me – oh, I am so sorry...”
Credence looks up, and his ears are correct: Newt is there, having knocked over one of the display stands. He’s not dressed in his green apron, instead wearing a shirt and brown tweed waistcoat, a plush navy coat thrown over, his outfit seeming to bolster him, and Credence’s mind is instantly filled with questions: why is he here? What is he reading? How on Earth did he manage to knock over the thriller display?
Newt lifts the stand back up, slotting the books back in with the help of the librarian; Credence would help, but Newt is on the other side of the library and it’s not small, though somehow the man feels his gaze and looks up, beaming at Credence and giving him a small wave, hurrying over the minute he’s helped accidentally rearrange the library’s selection, strides long and meaningful.
“Hello, Credence,” he says breathlessly, taking a seat. He’s carrying a suitcase, using it as some kind of bag, and he holds it tightly in his hands, his knuckles almost white from his grip. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“I, um, like reading. Keeps me busy.” Credence closes the book, using his thumb as a temporary bookmark, though he already knows he’s on page 163. Just in case he forgets in the surprise of actually talking to Newt and using words that aren’t ‘caramel’ and ‘macchiato’. “And you?”
“Looking for a certain book.” Credence’s curiosity is piqued.
“What book?” he asks. He knows where almost all the books in the library are, his memory abuzz with titles and authors and the colour of the spines. He hasn’t particularly tried to memorise where the books are, but they find themselves happily sliding into place in his mind, the library his palace.
“Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them,” Newt replies. Credence pauses, processing the mildly intriguing title, and he turns momentarily to the man beside him, but decides to let the peculiar title slide by, like a paper boat on a tiny pond. There are plenty books out there with weird and wonderful titles, one of which Credence has had the pleasure of reading before (The Hundred-Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out the Window and Disappeared), and he supposes that, if he thinks about it, Newt does seem like the kind of person to read books with strange titles. If he imagined it, Credence could easily image Newt having a vintage upholstered bookcase filled with all kinds of weird and wonderful novels. “Do you know where it might be?”
“Hm? Oh!” Credence realises that this is what he’s meant to be thinking about, not Newt’s reading habits, and his instinct flares up, directing him. “I think so. It should be this way.” Newt is right behind him, coat billowing. Credence wonders vaguely if Newt puts some kind of wind machine in his coat, then pushes the stupid thought away, where it belongs. He wishes he could push the darkness away so easily, too, from where it reaches out and grabs at him. His mind is like a Twenty-One Pilots song (or so he’s been told; he’s not sure what this means, most popular culture very much lost on him).
The twists and turns of the library are labyrinthine to most people, even those used to the library, but not to Credence. He doesn’t get lost. He just walks, and he always walks in the right direction. He casts glances over his shoulder, making sure he hasn’t accidentally lost Newt on a keen turn, and comes to a standstill in a section that doesn’t have a name, thanks to the perpetual moving of the library’s signs by some kind of mystery poltergeist (or, as Credence suspects, naughty patron). Newt runs straight into him, startled by the sudden halt. “Oh, I am so sorry,” he mumbles, stepping backwards, his Britishness apparent in his automatic apologies.
Credence crouches. “Here it is here. It’s a little bit dusty.” He runs his fingers along the shelf until they catch around the book, and he eases it out from its taut position in the shelf. It’s not old but has been very neglected; a cursory examination proves that it’s never been taken out before. It’s in hardback, but with no cover, just golden text inscribed on the front. He passes it over to Newt, who looks at the book with absolute awe, as if it were shining a warm yellow glow.
“Thank you,” he breathes, his breath like a blustery gale. He blows the layers of dust away, coughing as they predictably blow back into his face. He tucks the book under his arm. “You know this place well.”
“I have a lot of free time,” replies Credence, leading Newt back out of the maze, the two of them passing somebody who seems almost entirely lost and tags along for a few turns before losing themselves again, disappearing back into the abyss. Newt walks with surprising purpose, like he knows where he’s going, even though it’s clear to Credence that he’s just following along, eyes wandering along the bookcases, taking in as much as he can while maintaining his pace, his book nestled into him. “What’s the book for?”
“Oh, it’s for university. I study...” He pauses. “Zoology.”
Credence looks back. “What’s that?”
“It’s the study of crea– er, animals and the animal kingdom.” He smiles, looking slightly flustered, cheeks pink, and changes the subject quickly. “Are you studying anything? University, college, high school?”
“I’m due to start studying theology in a few weeks,” Credence replies, stepping back out into the main foyer of the library and guiding Newt towards the machines that check out books, modern marvels in an elderly library. Newt’s library card is battered and, despite it being incredibly hard to bend, one of the corners is almost folded over, and it seems somehow scorched, but the machine still takes it and lets him check out the book, warning him that he has an extremely overdue copy of something else and owes the library several dollars. Credence wants to interject and ask Newt why he hasn’t brought the book back, but it’s not his library, and he doesn’t want to make Newt angry. He doesn’t want to make anyone angry.
“And where does your interest in theology stem?” Newt asks, sticking his library card in his mouth to put the book in the battered brown case he’s carrying before placing it back in his pocket. Something about the way he holds the card in his mouth is strangely endearing to Credence, who tries to shake it from his mind.
“Um... occultism. I’m interested in witches.” Newt raises an eyebrow, and Credence instantly worries that he’s managed to scare off his barista, but Newt doesn’t seem to mind, leading Credence to the nearest sofa to sit down. Newt has perfect posture; Credence is prone to leaning over and tucking into himself. “What got you interested in zoology?”
“I like animals,” he replies simply. “They’re not as difficult as people. And what about you? Witches seem like a peculiar topic to be interested in.”
“Ma had an obsession – she was convinced there were witches here and was always trying to stop them, but she was more like Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell than King James the Fifth.” He pauses, suddenly realising that Newt may not understand who Shadwell is, or perhaps even not know who King James the Fifth (or First) is. Though he is British. Newt doesn’t even blink, nodding along contentedly. Maybe he has read Good Omens and knows his witch-killing history. “I just ended up interested, too. Though I’m not convinced we should burn anybody, least of all witches.”
“Oh? And what makes you say that?”
“Well, if there is magic out there, couldn’t it be used for the greater good? It could be used to accomplish many things. It could make some dangerous and environmentally harmful technology redundant. Why burn people who have power that they could use for the best?”
Newt chews on his bottom lip, looking intrigued. “Very true,” he says, though it sounds to Credence as if he’s keeping his voice tempered; perhaps he shares Credence’s vehement passion for the subject. He checks his watch. “Oh, dear, look at the time; I really have to get going.” He stands up, picking up his suitcase, though one of its latches seems to have popped open. “I’ll see you tomorrow as usual, then?” Credence nods, watching Newt hurry away, coat blustering behind him like wings, and it occurs to him that he can’t wait for his next caramel macchiato.