Silly Bugger
Many hours later the orange light from the sunset streams through the windows through the cracks in the second hand blinds. Newt is still fast asleep, I’m guessing both from fatigue and injury. I walk up to the couch, grabbing a blanket from around the side and throwing it over him. I took his coat and shirt off to put in to soak, so he must be cold now that it’s winter and becoming night. The warm fire is slowly dying, and even I in my warm clothing am frozen to the bone. My fingers find themselves sweeping the hair out of his eyes, pulling it back, grabbing the wet cloth that had fallen to his cheeks and placing it back on his forehead. I stand up. Queenie still isn’t back so I take when she said ‘soon’ as ‘If I’m not back in an hour I’ll be back in 24’. Dinner’s always hard without Queenie and her cooking skills. I can make toast, and heat up leftovers. I look into the kitchen, sighing. I haven’t been in there for so long. Newt groans, throwing his head sideways and making the wet cloth slopping onto the carpet, creating a small, damp patch.
“Silly bugger…” I mutter.
“I heard that…” his eyes open in the most attractively unattractive manner, a look only he could pull off.
“Not you, the cloth,” I smile at him. “How’re you feeling?”
“Um… good, good thanks,” a small laugh comes through his lips.
“I’ll come,” I declare, kneeling down in front of the couch.
“Come where?” as he asks, I raise an eyebrow and within seconds realisation shoots across his face. “To London??”
“Yes,” the expression he gives me in that next second is indescribable.
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