#exumbrae

     “Ain't it so... ain't it so perfect? Our cynical minds will make it totally worth it.”

❛     what do you think ??     did the sand in my boots give me away ??     ❜      another attempt at making light of the situation.     it helps to calm nerves.     the less power you give the situation, the less it can effect you.     as long as there’s light, there’s still a chance.     his capture was temporary.     bb-8 would relay his location to resistance personnel and they would find him.     much like he once helped to rescue admiral ackbar.

          Pristine white, mush glows under the street lights, reflection bouncing across freckle dotted features. Sea-foam eyes are bright, resembling that of the stars hanging brilliantly in the, otherwise, inky tinted sky. His raggedy coat is beginning to grow soppy, falling flakes collecting upon it as boots pad into the piles of snow surrounding the city.

          It’s a breathtaking scene, really. Downtown New York noticeably thriving, vibrant, utterly gorgeous. It’s a stark contrast when compared to the magizoologist, himself. A man who’s outfit is even ill-fitting when surrounded by the many businessmen residing within the city.

          The picture is truly perfect – correction, it’s almost perfect. He’s oblivious, Graves, previously strolling along side Newt, going unnoticed when he pauses to bend down. It isn’t until his weapon of choice, a tightly packed together snowball, beams him straight in the back, chill crawling up his spine, that he finally realizes what’s been declared upon him - a snowball fight.

THIGHS AND CASSIAN. goodbye.

fUCK U ARTHUR SHELBY. (ง'̀-‘́)ง

   Newt might have laughed if he weren’t so struck with unbridled shock. “My. That sounds like…. quite the agenda.” For lack of a better response. He looked from Percival to the scotch glass dangling precariously from his hand. Ah. That would explain it. 

  Throughout their correspondence after Newt left New York the last time, the prospect of catching up in person again had come up on more than one occasion. The unexpected truth was they had gotten on a lot better than Newt ever thought they might, and he found himself rather looking forward to the possibility of seeing Graves again. His next trip to America seemed like a good enough excuse, but travel delays had thrown him off schedule and he was much later than he said he’d be. It seemed in that period of absence he missed quite an exciting bit of solitary celebration on Percival’s part. As it was, he was far too tired to try and make complete sense of his words. “Why don’t you and I discuss it more tomorrow, Mr. Graves.” When you’re more in your right mind, he added silently.

   Delicately, Newt plucked the glass from Percival’s hand and set it onto the coffee table. “Right. You could use some tea before you go to bed, yes?” It was presented as a question, but his wand was already summoning a pair of small cups, and alongside them glided a bottle of pepper up potion he was sure Graves would thank him for when he awoke without any of the usual consequences that came with drinking. Only mixing in a drop, he knew it would make all the difference come morning.

   Not thinking twice of it, he sat himself next to Graves, eyes focused on the cup he was fixing for him. “There you are,” he said finitely, allowing the tea he made for Graves to hover in front of him. The liquid was hot enough that steam rose in front of the man’s eyes in enticing swirls. Newt followed the movement for only a moment before he saw to fixing his own cup. Ordinarily he wouldn’t make himself so comfortable in someone else’s home, but it had been an insufferably long day, and he could hardly help the heavy feeling of tiredness and lethargy as he leaned back into Percival’s couch, a breath of relief escaping his lips. For now, sipping tea in comfortable silence would be enough. He was sure by tomorrow, Graves will have entirely forgotten his outspoken plan.

   Why that thought resulted in a twinge of disappointment, he didn’t know.