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Fantastic pairing: newt x credence wc: 5,823 for: happy belated birthday @qredence!! i hoped to have this finished in time for your birthday but then all these words happened and what could i do about it? so i hope you enjoy this!! playlist: he’s fantastic

Credence always hears it before he sees it: the castle groans and whines, the joints of its patchwork foundation wheezing as it walks, its chicken-like legs struggling to hold up the piled-on castle above it. He’d tried counting the months when it appeared, but it never has rhythm or agenda: it’s just there, wandering past, and sometimes it stops to squat by the lake on the outskirts of town, and he wants to run for it, run up the tiny staircase he sees protruding from the front door and join the menagerie of oddballs he sees by the water or standing out on the balconies, abandon the church and his Ma and his sisters and finally meet the wizard Newt for himself.

He keeps a bag packed under his bed, just in case. He keeps it blocked off from view with stacks of Bibles and leaflets he hasn’t yet handed out, and he updates the selection of crackers and non-perishables when he can, stuffing his bag full of contraband novels, and he waits; he waits until next he’ll hear the creaking of Newt’s castle, and he waits, and he waits.

He misses it once, because he’s being kept inside. Grounded, his Ma said, after he was late home from school because he’d stayed behind in class to ask a question, and the regret boils him inside. He knows there was nothing he could do, and yet it eats at him, day after day; he waits, and listens for the sound he knows too well.

And he waits. And he waits.

And in the haze of a warm Monday afternoon, as he’s sitting doing his homework with air breezing in through his cracked-open window, he hears the castle. It’s the most distinctive noise he’s ever heard, the sound of everything under the pressure of a storm, and the sound is incredible, crushing and whining before it suddenly stops with a satisfying hiss; that’s the noise of it settling, Credence knows, and yet he hadn’t heard its approach at all.

It strikes him for a moment; the thought that the castle can fly.

But he’s not going to ask questions now: he grabs his bag, and stuffs in the bars of chocolate he’d smuggled home from the cafeteria, and opens the window all the way. He’s just small enough from his limited diet to squeeze through, the soles of his boots touching down and scrabbling on the weak wood of their near-collapsing roof; the purchase is poor, but Credence is determined, slowly sliding his way down and trying to ignore the amplified noise of every time he jams his foot into a gap for hold as he lowers himself over the end of the roof, dropping himself with care.

The land is still a sudden impact, and shockwaves jolt up his legs: but he has no time, he knows, and he runs with his jelly-legged limp, the makeshift castle a landmark of hope in the distance. It’s a fair way away, but he knows that someone might be in pursuit, and people from the church might be watching – hell, they probably know he’s been planning to escape, they probably anticipate these kinds of things and have measures in place to trap him and keep him, and he knows that he can’t let up.

He speeds through the winds of the town streets, keeping close to corners and his eyes on the prize: he can’t give up now. He knows he’ll be beaten relentlessly and ruthlessly, and he can’t take it anymore: he’s desperate for this freedom, now that it’s in sight, no matter how weak he feels or how much his lungs feel like they’ll give out or how sore his legs are or how his bones feel as if they’ve been electrocuted with every stomp of his foot to the ground.

He’s running. He’s going to be free.

The castle shrieks with tension as it rises, whining as a part of it falls off from the top; Credence can see someone emerging onto the balcony, screwdriver between their teeth as they heave themselves up with the embittered determination of an engineer, and with renewed vigour to be a part of this and a part of something that’s more than his stupid church and his abusive family, he reaches the castle, throws himself at the elevated stairs, and pulls himself to his feet.

He has to creep in through the door, careful not to fall from the withdrawn staircase, but he makes it, and as the door shuts behind him, a thought occurs to him:

Credence Barebone is now free.

Fuck, he doesn’t even need to call himself Credence Barebone.

It’s dark, first: the only source of light in the corridor is a flickering and waning lamp on the wall that eventually sputters out as Credence makes his way across the floorboards, which sing out notes like they’re on an electric piano: he pauses to marvel, trying out each different board to hear its note, entirely and blissfully unaware of the cacophony he’s creating as he approaches the end of the corridor. It branches into two doors and a spiral staircase, and one of the doors is open, light spilling through it, so Credence ventures through and up a few wooden stairs into a room that seems to be the kitchen and dining room combined.

It’s a marvel of a room: there’s a door in it that leads to the outside world, but straight outside, and as such someone would simply fall out of the castle if they stepped out, but the door is half a window and helps to serve the purpose of gushing light in: the room is full of massive windows and it’s spectacularly bright, lifting Credence’s spirit immediately. Indeed, he ignores the piles of unwashed dishes and clamorous clutter of the kitchen in favour of watching the clouds outside and admiring the dining table, around which are multiple chairs and a cheerfully rotund man is enjoying a lunch of beans on toast.

“Hey,” the man says, greeting Credence like an old friend. “Want some lunch, pal?”

Credence’s stomach rumbles loudly in response. “Oh, please, that would be lovely,” he says, taking a seat as the man rises to cut some slices of bread.

“How about a cheese toastie?” he asks, and Credence makes a noise that sounds enough like a ‘yes’ for the man to pop some slices of cheddar on top of the bread before placing them on a grate inside a grumbling fireplace; Credence swears it’s literally grumbling, as he hears a mutter of complaint as his lunch cooks. “I better make lunch for old Abernathy up on the roof, too.”

“Absolutely not,” says the fireplace, and to Credence’s starting surprise, a small fire emerges between the slices of toasting bread: a fire with a face, a grumpy one with extreme eyebrows of crimson flame and a look of scandal. “I don’t know why I let you people cook with me at all. I should tell Newt.”

“Hey, come on, Graves, pal. We just want to have some lunch,” the man pleads. “He’s doing you a favour, up there, keeping the castle from falling apart.”

“Yeah, well, I’m a fire demon, not your personal servant,” the fire, Graves, grumbles. The round man flashes a slightly cheeky grin at Credence, and there’s something in the homeliness of that grin that makes Credence feel, very suddenly and strikingly, like this is the place he was always meant to be, and that he finally and effortlessly belongs.

And lunch is served.

-

A charming girl called Queenie takes it upon herself to show Credence around and she finds him a nice room with a small square-shaped balcony that he can stand on and do little else with; she introduces him to everyone, even the man on the roof screwing the castle back together whose name is Abernathy and who doesn’t respond in words for the screwdriver in his mouth, but who makes a noise of affirmation anyway.

Newt’s room is essentially in the centre of the castle, and that’s where Credence meets him first. He doesn’t know what he ever expected of Newt or of his room, but this isn’t it: Newt is incredibly unassuming, a freckled man with sparkling eyes and hair that shines a little gingery in the light, and he’s writing neatly in a journal at his desk, which is littered with plants and old tins of soup repurposed as pen holders. His room is incredible, full of gleaming orbs of light that keep alive his menagerie of plants that are twinned only by the small creatures that amass themselves in his room, from creatures that look like sticks to one that reminds Credence of an animal he’d seen in a book called a platypus.

If Credence had been expecting flash and glitter, he’s pleasantly surprised to find this quiet beauty instead: Newt smiles at him, getting up to greet him. “Ah, you must be a new addition to our little team here.”

“Ah, yes,” Credence says shyly. “I-I’d like to stay here, if that’s okay.”

Newt pauses for a moment, his round and shining eyes considering Credence. “Of course you can stay. Queenie wouldn’t be introducing you if you were just passing through.” Newt smiles for a moment, a wary smile that suggests he maybe thinks more of Credence than Credence might ever think of himself. “I have to get back to my writing, so I’m afraid that this is just a brief introduction. It’s nice to meet you, Credence.”

Credence nods, though even when Queenie leads him on to the next part of the sprawling castle complex, which occasionally shifts and moves at random (at Graves’s will, apparently), he can’t stop thinking about Newt, about his gentle demeanour and the twinkle in his eye, like a true wizard.

-

When Credence wakes during the night, it takes him a few moments to realise he’s not dreaming; in fact, he’s not convinced until he tries all his dream tests – he pinches himself, tries again, and then opens up a page of one of his books, but the words are all perfectly real and legible and make sense. The castle is peculiar in the night: moonlight seems to filter through his windows and lights a dusty haze in his bedroom, and he sits up, reaching out for a moment and letting the light touch his hand, which is pale and soft, the shadows hiding his calluses.

He gets up and ventures slowly along the stairs, letting his feet carry him: he doesn’t really remember where everything is, and he certainly can’t see enough in the dark to make out the places that he does know. He hears noise in the distance, and it sounds surprisingly like music: but he can’t imagine who would be playing music in the middle of the night, and so he cautiously follows the sound, his hands trailing across the walls and his fingers picking up dust.

He comes out into the kitchen, which is surprisingly bright, lit up with orbs floating around the room, each emanating warm light. Newt is sitting by the fireplace, talking in soft tones to Graves; by him is a gramophone, spinning a record full of fuzzy-sounding pianos and accordions, and there’s an aura to him that’s so much more relaxed than usual, his sleeves loose and his top buttons undone. His chest is freckled, too, ever so lightly, and he’s laughing as he talks to Graves, his entire face lighting up as he beams.

Credence isn’t sure he’s seen anything so beautiful before, and he’s not really sure what’s going on, but his stomach feels strange, and stranger so as Newt looks up and sees him, their eyes catching.

“Hello, Credence,” he says gently. “What are you doing up?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” he replies, shifting; he doesn’t know whether or not to sit down, and Newt’s gaze on him makes him feel yet shier. “I’m not very good at sleeping.”

“No,” Newt nods, sympathetic. “Nor am I. I think a little too much to sleep.” He turns, pulling over one of the stools from the dining table and invites Credence to sit. “Graves and I were just discussing where we should go next. I’m not very sure. I think I’d like to see a little more of the world. What do you think?”

“I think that carrying this rustbucket across the ocean is going to be the death of me,” Graves complains.

“Maybe we should do something about the castle first,” Credence concedes. “It does seem a little... rickety.”

Newt laughs, so loudly that it startles Credence a little; it’s a boyish and boisterous laugh, so at odds with his reserved speaking voice. He feels like he’s unlocked something in Newt as the man wipes his brow for a moment, mouth caught in a grin. “Yes. That’s what we should do. I think this castle is long in need of redecorating, don’t you, Graves?”

“Tell me about it,” Graves grumbles, his ember eyes glancing over to Credence. “I like this kid. He’s got big ideas. Nobody else would suggest anything that stupid.”

“Stupid?” Credence inquires, leaning in and staring goggle-eyed at Graves; he’s still a marvel, and yet a surprisingly small one – it’s almost impossible to believe that such a small creature holds up the entire castle and moves it with his own will, and that such a powerful creature would at any level bend to Newt’s will; but maybe that last part is believable. Newt isn’t anyone, after all. “W-what’s stupid about it?”

Graves shrugs verbally. “Oh, it’s just a very small castle made of very conveniently fit together component parts that aren’t at all hard to clean or move, and Newt’s a fantastic wizard.”

“Do you have to slight me at every available opportunity?” Newt sighs, but he grins; Credence has never known such a friendship, of a wizard and a demon who crack insulting jokes back and forth and who seem almost symbiotic, but this castle is wonderful, and strange, and he feels as if he could be friends with anyone here.

“I think we can do it,” Credence says, and he’s determined.

-

Credence isn’t wrong.

It just takes them half a year.

They keep on moving throughout the country, which makes it exceedingly difficult to move the component parts of the castle; but Newt is a wizard and Queenie and Tina are his apprentices and Abernathy determinedly doesn’t fall off, and Credence deep cleans the castle with such vigour that he swears he peels back entire generations of dust. He unravels a whole history in hidden and tucked-away rooms, a history of musty old books and strange jazz and piano records and Newt’s old bestiaries and letters from Newt’s old friends and acquaintances, all left in fused-together drawers, gently forgotten old memories that Newt fawns over when Credence re-introduces them to him.

Newt spends most of his time in his room, but it’s always open to Credence, and sometimes they just talk for hours about anything; Credence likes to sit on Newt’s rocking chair and look up at his star-painted ceiling, and Newt sits at his desk, drawing and drinking cups of tea.

And it’s so simple, and yet there’s nowhere else Credence would rather be.

He introduces Credence, after a few weeks, to the locked door by his room: the door doesn’t look like any of the others, painted light green and stencilled with white leaves, with a shiny brass doorknob and no sign of the lock that keeps it sealed shut – but there’s no lock, in the end: Newt shifts his hand and the door clicks open, a breeze flowing through it and out into the corridor.

“This is my work,” he says, stepping through and onto a paved road: Credence suspends his disbelief as he joins Newt. He’s seen a lot of things in his few weeks, and he tries to hold in his surprise as he looks around, realising the depth of the room: because it’s not a room. The door leads out into a field connected to a patchwork of entirely different ecosystems of field, and between them, animals of the like he’s never seen and might never see again mill back and forth – hell, Credence doesn’t even have words, and so he chooses instead to say none and bask. “And I’d like to introduce it to you, because I’d like you as my assistant, Credence.”

It takes Credence more than a moment for those words to sink in.

“Really?” he asks, slowly. “M-me?”

“That’s why I brought you here,” Newt replies. “You’re very observant, and neat, and I think that you would be a great help here. You don’t have to help me out all the time, of course – you can keep helping with the remodelling, too, if you’d like, but I would very much appreciate a helping hand.”

Credence blushes.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll help.”

-

Life in the castle becomes a joy that way – Credence splits his time between feeding Newt’s menagerie of unusual creatures and taking care of them, and helping Queenie, Tina, and Jacob redecorate or clear out rooms for Graves to remove or change. Newt’s life is surprisingly entangled with the creatures: he spends most of his own time observing them and taking notes to compile into a book, and he’s always there to help Credence and offer soft words of reassurance when Credence worries that he’s messed up. He’s at home here where he maybe isn’t in a castle that’s become slightly too old and creaky.

“Newt,” he asks one day when he’s flinging out pellets for the happy bouncing Mooncalves (they’re his favourites: he’s nervous that the other animals could hurt him, and yet there’s nothing dangerous-looking about their big eyes), “why does Graves do what you want him to do?”

“We made a deal a long time ago,” Newt says softly, glancing up from the sketch he’s been doing of the dozing Niffler, tucked away in its cubbyhole of stolen pennies and magpie-snatched artefacts. “Our magic is linked because he’s in possession of my heart.”

Credence pauses to turn, only to realise that, several moments later, a dozen Mooncalf eyes are beadily trained on him, and he returns to throwing them food. “Your heart? But – how is that possible?”

“A lot of things are possible,” Newt shrugs. “If you look in the right places.”

“Like here?”

Newt laughs. “Like here.”

“I’m glad I’m here,” Credence whispers, so suddenly that he’s not even sure he’s said it until he registers Newt’s eyes staring back at him, milky; if Credence didn’t know better, he’d say that Newt was touched, but Newt loves the world and he’s seen that look everywhere from an Occamy hatching to Wouldn’t It Be Nice playing through the gramophone, and there’s nothing special about sentiment in the eyes of a sentimental man.

His voice cracks when he speaks, though, and it stops Credence’s heart. “I’m glad, too.”

-

Every time Credence can’t sleep, he heads through to the kitchen; and almost every time, Newt is there, half-asleep over a cup of tea, and makes some more for Credence. When he’s tired, Credence notes that Newt likes to watch the world outside the window: either the wind blowing through the grass, or the town and cityscapes that wander past.

It’s better being up in the early hours with someone else, and Credence swears that Newt mumbles something to that effect one night, and he nods back.

-

Credence doesn’t even know what time of year it is when the castle settles for a few days on the beach by a port town, but the slightly bitter wind reads winter to him, and so he borrows one of Jacob’s coats to go out in and sits huddled in its fabric in the sand, knees to his chin as he watches the breeze scoop the sea.

He doesn’t move as Abernathy sits next to him, his cheek blackened with some kind of soot or oil; Credence doesn’t know, and Abernathy doesn’t care. He’s happy when he’s making himself useful, and if that means being covered in soot, so be it; Credence thinks sometimes that Abernathy would explode if he wasn’t working, but when he expresses this idea to Newt, Newt shakes his head slowly.

“He wouldn’t,” Newt had observed. “He just doesn’t think he’s worth enough to have his own hobbies and interests, so he works.”

“I liked Newt once, too,” Abernathy says softly.

Credence turns his head. “What happened?”

“He’s fantastic, and I’ll never be.”

Credence reaches out and puts his hand on top of Abernathy’s, his fingers curling around Abernathy’s warm and beaten palm. He can feel a heartbeat through the lines that run through Abernathy’s hands, and it’s unsteady, unsure of where to be. He’s soft underneath. Quiet.

“What does it mean to be fantastic?” Credence asks. Abernathy pauses for a few moments, beats passing like the tide lapping at their feet.

“I think it’s when you see the world the way it’s meant to be seen,” he answers.

And he doesn’t elaborate, because that’s the moment that Mary Lou Barebone wrenches Graves from the fireplace, Newt’s heart with him, and the castle shrieks and collapses. Abernathy yelps, dragging Credence out of the way of his own balcony as it smashes into the sands, propelling some of Credence’s books out through the open window and splaying them across the damp; they run with abandon, their feet scraping up gusts of sand as they make a break for the stairs that bridge the beach from the boardwalk.

They make it just in time to avoid the rest of the castle as its bowels groan and drop like stones onto the shore, the wreckage horribly still as it stops, the joints keeping the different sections of the castle together whining loudly.

“We have to help everyone,” Credence says; he doesn’t stop to feel surprised in his own authoritativeness, because, for once, he’s not overthinking – he’s not even sure he’s thinking as he pushes open the door, shoving himself into the corridor: this part of the castle is still upright, holding its own determinedly as he rushes into the kitchen, and the scene before him is nothing but chaos. Mary Lou is holding Graves and her hands are burning but he’s spitting and fizzling away; Newt is nowhere to be seen, but Queenie and Tina are holding the fort in his stead – Queenie is holding a wand to Mary Lou, her face turned in an uncharacteristically vicious and protective frown, and Tina is holding a frying pan like a woman possessed; if it were Credence in Mary Lou’s place, just the sight of the two sisters would terrify him into submission, but his own mother’s never been so nervous.

“Ma,” Credence pleads; he needn’t find the words, because she knows what he means. He knows what she’s come to do, and that’s to destroy everything he loves.

“Foul wizard,” she hisses, and in the moment she turns to look at him, Tina slams her elbow into the side of her face and Mary Lou drops Graves; on instinct, Credence shoots out, and catches him.

-

The whole world blacks out for a moment.

The darkness opens out onto a field: it’s warm, the sky pure blue and unburdened by clouds, and beneath his feet is a jungle of brightly coloured flowers that bounce right back up even after he steps on them, standing proud in their vivid rainbow. In the distance, Credence can see some of Newt’s creatures: the Graphorns are speeding around in playful chase, and the Diricawls are teleporting themselves around with glee, and above his head the Thunderbird is soaring, cruising the gentle wind he creates.

In the middle of the field is Newt, sitting curled up. Credence joins him.

“I’ve died, haven’t I?” Newt asks, sounding almost exasperated by the thought, as if death is just an inconvenience.

“I don’t think so,” Credence replies, reaching over and sliding his hand into Newt’s. Now isn’t the time to be anxious, or to overthink every decision. Now, he knows, is the time for him to trust his heart. “I’m still here.”

“I can see my family home across that river,” Newt says, pointing – Credence follows to the sight of an idyllic town house, the fence blocking out its garden overrun with ivy and its once beautiful bushes and flowers grown out to possess the walls, creating a second structure on top of the first. “Empty now, of course. We all moved somewhere else. My parents never approved of me, and so I thought that the best place to go would be everywhere else.” The castle, thinks Credence. It makes sense. “Graves and I struck up a deal when I was still a teenager, but even this castle never felt better. The more layers we piled on, the more I felt as if I were hiding from the way I feel, and hiding from the others in the castle. I let people come and go, of course – they often don’t cause a bother – but even those who have stayed and made a concerted effort to be my friend, I still just hide, in the end. From my parents, from my friends, and from myself.”

Credence doesn’t have an answer to that.

His intuition does, and it beats his conscious thoughts to action: he places his hands on Newt’s flushed cheeks, and kisses him. He’s never kissed anyone before, and feels his own inexperience as he flusters; but Newt shifts his legs so that they’re not pulled up and lets Credence settle into the space that he’s created, and he kisses back. He’s slow, careful, tender: Credence melts into him, and for a while after they part, Credence sits with his head on Newt’s shoulder as Newt massages rhythms onto his back, songs that only he can hear.

“I’m sorry,” says Credence.

“For what?”

“Everything.”

“Credence, please don’t apologise like that. I’ve been the happiest I’ve been in a long time with you around, and the idea of renovating the castle – that’s just what I need to do. I can’t hide in hidden dusty rooms my whole life.” He runs a hand through Credence’s hair, mumbling a soft comment about how it’s beautiful now that it’s grown, no sign left of his old bowl cut edges. “And if you’re sorry for kissing me, don’t be. If you hadn’t, then who knows if I would ever have mustered the courage?”

Credence wants to kiss him again, and again, and get lost in Newt’s arms in this field forever. He looks into Newt’s eyes for the moment that their respective anxieties can bear.

“We have to go back,” he says.

“I need my heart first,” Newt reminds him gently.

Credence doesn’t remember putting Newt’s heart, a strange magical form of a thing, in his pocket, but he reaches instinctively there for it: when he touches it, he can hear the sounds of Queenie shrieking with rage and Tina and Jacob panicking as they try to retrieve Graves, and he can hear the sound of the castle again beginning to give way, with little magic left to hold it up. He feels like it’s forever away, and he slowly presses Newt’s heart to his chest and watches it sink in.

He’s beginning to think that nothing is impossible anymore, from demons in fire to enchanted hearts to Newt Scamander loving him back.

He holds Newt’s hand as the field crumbles away from them.

-

Credence doesn’t remember what happens after that: it’s a blur of falling debris and shouting and Newt scrabbling to get Graves to a grate and ignite him again, and the world is still spinning from all the commotion, and Credence is only really conscious again when he wakes up in his bedroom.

And the world outside is moving, and his balcony is still there, and everything could’ve been a dream. His sheets have been changed, and they smell like lilies, and his books have been sorted back into his bedside table, and everything has been dusted and organised neatly into place. He even has plants on his windowsill: a pot of ivy, some cacti, a Chinese evergreen. There’s a small tree in one of the corners that Bowtruckles squeak on, and he sits up slowly, swinging his legs around the side of his bed.

The sun shining in through the window reminds Credence of the field, and he watches the sky, spellbound. The past feels like it was years ago, like a long-ago dream he once sad, and his heart swims for a moment in the warmth of the nostalgia.

“Oh, sweetie, you’re finally awake!” Queenie coos, beaming. “I’ll get you some cocoa. Is that okay?”

Dazed, he nods, waiting on the edge of his bed for her to return; she’s quick, despite the fact that she layers his cocoa with tiny marshmallows and cream and sprinkles, and puts it into a mug printed with a little black cat for him. He sips at the cream.

“Did all of that happen?” he asks.

“Sure it did,” says Queenie. “It was crazy – but you did amazing, Credence! You saved Newt.” She grins at him, placing her hand on his shoulder and giving it a reassuring squeeze. “You saved all of us.”

Credence isn’t sure he’s saved anyone, but he nods, letting Queenie show him around the castle all over again: it’s completely different, no longer a labyrinth of dark and musty corridors with doors that lead to nowhere or rooms that nobody uses but a bright and open space with wide corridors and brightly painted doors and more windows, the furniture dusted and painted in bright colours. The fireplace in the kitchen is gone, replaced with a grate that Graves sits and chews up logs on. Jacob is making lunch again, this time in better and improved equipment, laid out in a more open space, with a stove.

“Hello, Graves,” Credence says, crouching to his level; he’s used to Graves’s grumpiness, not him humming along to a song in his head and looking almost cheery. “I thought you would’ve left.”

Graves laughs, spitting embers. “Me too, but I guess not. That Abernathy has a real way with words, when he’s speaking and not busy constructing damn bookcases or something. And I don’t suppose I know what I’d do if I weren’t here. There aren’t that many groups of misfits looking to adopt fire demons.”

“So you aren’t connected to Newt anymore?”

“No. We separated when you disappeared off with his heart and I was left here. So, there you go: you freed him, and he still has this place, and now we’re going to cross the sea and go on fun adventures – or, knowing Newt, adventures that are simultaneously very fun and incredibly dangerous. He doesn’t know any other kind.”

“He’s fantastic,” Credence says, offhandedly, and Graves snorts a lick of flame that almost scorches Credence’s shirt.

“So I’ve heard.”

-

Newt doesn’t leave his room for another few days, and Credence spends one of those days out in town with Queenie, Tina, and Jacob. He misses Newt, but there’s something that feels so much calmer now: he always felt as if he belongs, but now he feels as if he really does – he really feels like he’s been there for as long as life, and he’s not sure he even remembers what it was like before he spent his days on the balcony as the countryside disappeared past him on some kind of neverending voyage.

He stops off at a record shop and picks one up that he remembers having heard before. When he asks Queenie where they get their money from, she just smiles and says “you don’t think Newt’s the only person to have ever lived in that castle, do you?”, and Credence decides not to question it, because the world is full of oddities and he’d get bogged down if he asked questions of all of them.

He’s listening to Martha Reeves’s rendition of Then He Kissed Me, having pulled the gramophone into his own room temporarily, when the door creaks open and Newt appears in the frame. He’s not the steadiest on his legs, but he’s dressed himself in a shirt and trousers and a pair of socks with a hole in the big toe, which he’s been wearing stubbornly for months, insistent on not throwing them out as he likes the dragon pattern.

“Hello,” he says sleepily, rubbing his eyes. “I like the music.”

Credence isn’t much one for making small talk, considering his inability at it, and so he leaps to his feet and throws his arms around Newt: Newt, Newt, his Newt, all floppy hair and bashful smiles and freckles and easy kisses, and Credence kisses him until he feels as if he’s done it too much and is robbing Newt’s lips.

“If I could wake up to this every day,” he says, “that would be very nice.” He disentangles himself from Credence’s arms to take a seat on the bed, and he laughs until he starts to cough. “Oh, dear. I maybe got up a little early. But I wanted to see you, and to make sure you were okay.”

“I’m okay,” Credence nods. “I’m okay.”

“Good,” says Newt, and, in time, falls asleep on Credence’s bed.

-

It takes him another week to recover, the better part of which he spends with Credence, who insists on bringing him food and water and who tidies up Newt’s room, which conveniently missed the tidying-up and remodelling attempts, and so Credence takes it upon himself to do it all himself, which amuses Newt to no end as he watches Credence lovingly decorate his room and fill it with all the little objects and artefacts and books that Newt loves the most.

The minute he’s well enough to, Newt gets up and puts his waistcoat over his shirt and heads through to the kitchen. “Graves,” he says, doing up his buttons, “I think it’s about time we crossed the ocean, don’t you?”

“I think we’re long overdue some continent-hopping,” Graves says. “Get up there, Newt.”

“Roger that,” Newt says, and reaches over to grab Credence’s hand; he barrels up the stairs, all the way up the spiral staircase and through the door that never opened and never left at the top, and they emerge onto the uppermost balcony of the castle, one that gives them a view of everything: the town they’re about to leave, the vast stretch of sea they’re going to fly over, the whole castle, bright and colourful and held together with tough metal stitches.

The castle lifts off the ground, and Newt’s grip tightens, and Credence’s heart lifts as the world opens itself out before him: Newt, the animals, the globe.

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