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What waves may come

Danger! Death! Flee!

Your systems are cascading, one into the other, swallowed into terrifying silence even as they scream at you to breathe, to stand, to move, to run. To live. The barrier between the cybernetic and organic trembles such that you can't even be sure which is which anymore. They all gasp for the same, desperate thing, and then become void.

“Please," you whisper, “please." But the words don't come out right. The lunar coin you'd been holding slips from bloodied fingers, rolls along the stone, spins, and settles just out of reach. A stab of panic. You lurch forward and grab it, clutch it to your chest, your heart. It is your heart. Without it, you'll die. You're going to die. You will die.

You place your heart in its coin-shaped slot, at the base of a blue pedestal. It sinks in, clicks, whirrs. The pedestal hums soothingly and you pull yourself closer. Your legs refuse to work any further, so you must claw the stone for purchase. You've been clawing the stone for a while, now. Your fingernails are missing on your right hand, and the metal digits on your left have begun to splinter, unravel.

Unwind.

You've begun to unwind. You can't unwind, not now, not yet. Even now, scattered as you are, that is something you refuse to give up on. Your anchor: if they find you, and they will soon find you, then they will find you whole. Dangerous. A man. You set about twining the many listless strands of your sense of self around this fragile core of yours.

Breathe, you remind yourself, breathe. You must breathe.

It works, somewhat. Your heart settles. You pull yourself up and set your back against the portal's pedestal, let yourself be soothed by the thrums of its gathering energy. Calm. Breathe. It's going to be okay.

A bullet whines past your head, leaving a streak of light that burns itself into your retinas. A thing, a creature, crests the nearest hill, focuses its soulless eye upon your position. Your hard-fought calm shatters. You forget yourself instantly, you give up, cut your anchor free.

You scramble to the other side of the altar as more projectiles go scorching by. You're not fast enough. One buries itself into your thigh, another your arm, your chest. You've forgotten how to breathe as you take what meagre shelter you can behind this glistening blue stone. You can't breathe, there's no time to breathe. Explosions rock your position, throwing dirt and boulders into the air, only for them to rain back down upon you.

Time. You need more time. No time. No breath.

You grasp the altar with both hands.

“Please."

It hums.

“Please."

A blinding light erupts beside you, behind your eyelids, and your auditory senses vanish.

“Please."

The altar vibrates, blue sparks shooting back and forth along its base, racing each other, towards each other, knitting together to create a glistening blue pool. Water, like water. You want to drink it all in, to submerge yourself in it, but it's too soon. Too soon. Too late. You're too late.

Another shot of pain entangles you from hip to shoulder, a thorned vine to wrap you tight, squeeze what little air remains from your lungs. At last, the physical external mirrors the mental internal, that or your internals have been ripped open, splayed out upon the hilltop, a collage of indistinguishable violence.

The portal shimmers and unfolds, doubling over itself once, twice, and then snaps to its completed state — sparkling, stable. You dive through it, screaming, and land upon strange earth. You claw at your helmet but your broken fingers don't work, can't find purchase. You can't breathe. Breathe. You've escaped but it doesn't matter. You've left them behind but it doesn't matter. You can't get your helmet off. You can't breathe. You're going to die. Danger! Danger! You're going to die. You tried your best and it didn't matter. They lied to you, and you're going to die, and it doesn't matter. You don't matter. You close your eyes. Death comes.

***

Breathe.

It takes a good few seconds for your lungs to pick up the signals from your brain, but they make up for their delay with an over-enthusiasm. You gulp down air so quickly and fiercely that you end up coughing, spluttering, which just triggers your body to try even harder. You force down the terror, the panic, and demand your frantic circulatory functions to wait, relax, be still. As with an unruly dog, you intentionally withhold that precious air, engaging it only in short fits and gasps, coercing your body into obedience, into some semblance of being settled.

It is only then that you open your eyes. Your vision wavers, struggles to perceive a cave of crystal. Dark and blue, it is so vividly separate from its few surroundings that you can't be sure it even exists, in the sense that things are said to exist in this dimensional reality. It appears to be more defined by what it is not, rather than what it is, owing to the intense cobalt void just barely contained by its glistening shell.

Your awareness oozes, drips down from the cave roof, collects and recedes back into your body. Your body, weightless, bordering on dysfunctional, it provides very little feedback, to the point you are left only to hope that it still exists in a recognisable form. From what you can tell, you are floating in some sort of liquid with enough density to keep you from sinking. It is warm, or close enough to warm as makes no difference — your limited sensory capabilities have heightened a few whilst quashing the many.

Breathe.

Where are you? This, presumably, isn't an unexpected afterlife, and whether or not that is pleasing information is a problem to pluck loose at some point later on. You collapsed through the lunar portal and then… then you woke up, here. No, that's not right. You ceased existing, somewhere there in the space between then and now, your threads spun loose into the ether, only for some incredibly rude thing to wind you back together like a toy soldier, ever on duty, ever forced to march. And so now you float, a ball of quivering you, ready to unravel again at first plucking.

“Greetings, hmmn, Little One," a voice, crisp yet fluid, like running water.

You reach for your blaster but your body refuses to respond. You try to swim away but your body refuses to respond. You try to yell, to scream, but your body refuses to respond. You are a cornered animal, trapped, squeezed behind quickly diminishing cover as bullets dig burning caverns into your skin, your flesh. Your flesh holds in the pain, absorbs it as you've long since trained it to do, wills it deeper to some untouchable place inside of you, but it's not working, your coping systems are not working, and no matter how hard you can't seem to-

“Breathe, Little One, breathe, it's one thing I cannot do for you, hmmn?" The voice comes in pulses, waves, and ends with a rising intonation that suggests a question, or perhaps the impending crash of sea foam. While considering, you come to the realisation that you've forgotten to not breathe, forgotten to be difficult. Your chest rises, settles, steady. Is it the shock, the distraction, or something else that has soothed you?

“Are you going to hurt me?" you ask, after managing to work up the moisture.

“I-," there is a hesitation, and then, “not intentionally, yes? I have worked very hard to keep you from degeneration, from death, hmmn. But there are some things even time cannot heal."

“Where am I?"

“Somewhere safe, Little One. Somewhere safe."

There is no such place, but you can at least appreciate the sentiment. You try to respond but the words won't come. The world dims, or your eyes do, and you feel heavy, solid, anchored. Your words become air, and the air calls you back to silence. You're not done healing, not yet, maybe not ever.

As you sink down into blessed sleep, a figure pokes its face into your fading vision. Sleek, and round, and curious. An eel? You must be dreaming.

***

Your consciousness arrives in fits and spurts, lasting only long enough to provide a snapshot slideshow of feelings and experiences. Events that may have stretched out over days or weeks, or more. It is with this comforting slowness that one image groans, ticks over into the next, and all at once you feel the world settle sharply into place. A trick of the mind, as if you'd been looking at it through reversed lenses all along and only just now removed them. It was a satisfying, deliberate click.

And then you awaken, truly.

You're still floating in that strange liquid, that vibrant not-quite-water, and it is indeed lukewarm. You raise a hand, both hands, and hold them above you, fingers and thumbs splayed to frame a crystal ceiling. Your hands have been repaired, organic and mechanical alike, bearing no memory of the violence they'd been subjected to, subjected to others, subjected to yourself. A denial of the past — no, a misrepresentation. These hands, so plain and pleasant, are not your hands, no, not yours, but you will keep them. Better the lie.

Standing in a thigh-deep pool, your body is much the same, whole and strong and unblemished, except for the few physical reminders that even this apparent rebirth could not erase. There on your stomach, your thigh, patches of puckered skin, portals to oblivion. You look away.

Stepping out of the water, you find yourself better able to gather your bearings. The cave you're in is smaller than you thought, and cool enough to prickle your bare skin with gooseflesh. There is a stillness in the air, in fact it is laden with it, a thickness of waiting like a breath held, or a bubble about to burst — perpetually. Even the liquid, still dripping down your body, dribbles in apprehensive fits and spurts.

“Hello?" Hello? Your voice bounces back with a soft, delayed echo. The exit from this small room is a winding tunnel, and the lack of line-of-sight makes it uncomfortable to approach, but there is no other option. The soft patter of your feet upon smooth, ancient stone is your only accompaniment.

The chamber beyond is large, far beyond anything that you might have expected. Upon further inspection, it reveals itself as less of a chamber, and more along the lines of a massive platform flung out into an endless void. The entire structure consists of a series of bizarrely shaped rock — spirals and pillars, dugout caverns, and rises that double back on themselves in an impossible manner, or thrusts of rock that jut out into nothingness like grasping fingers. The ground is covered, here and there, in thick layers of what you might assume to be snow, but which spirits away at a touch. Stalactites and stalagmites of pure crystal protrude from the stone as its most common decoration, yet what's more surprising is the occasional, inexplicable presence of flora — small bushes, unadorned and simple, but alive.

The sheer openness of this clearing in particular is disturbing. Many folds of stone and unassuming formations provide a disastrous number of dark pockets for enemies to hide in, to watch you from, and traversing this place would require you to first make a dash through the killing field, open to attack from all sides. You can't even hug the wall, for it immediately falls away into nothing on both sides — meaning you had been resting for who-knows how long in an outcropping of rock that appears worryingly ignorant to the laws of gravity.

Perhaps you should wait for that alien creature to return. It hadn't tried to kill you. Not yet, at least, which is more than you can say for most. But that might be inviting its own host of problems — dehydration perhaps chief among them. You've no idea how long you've been down here, or what has been keeping you alive, and you doubt you can drink that water you've been sleeping in. You're not willing to risk it, at least.

And, assuming it isn't just keeping you here, rehabilitating you, for some twisted plan you can't quite fathom — that still doesn't make this place any safer. It doesn't mean you're alone here. Oh, how you're sick of being alone; how being alone is the only thing to provide a modicum of comfort. A tightrope walk of insanity, a balancing act threatening to topple you from nothing into nowhere. No, you can't stay here.

Stone outcroppings and crystal pillars serve as your cover, as you dart from nook to cranny, laying low, staying hidden, and sprinting through open clearings when geometry and latent dread forces you to action. You learn quickly to stay away from the 'snow'. The snow is deadly, the snow is traitorous, betraying your position with the slightest provocation.

The process is slow, and all the more stressful for it. For every corner you turn, every outcropping you avoid, for every crystal you crawl behind and find no one, nothing, the pressure only builds and builds until you start wishing, hoping that something might happen, someone might be waiting, with claw or tooth or gun or open arms and a smile and some damn food or drink. The still air, the waiting air, tepid, always on the verge, swollen, one moment away from… from what?

You've lost all care for stealth, or perhaps just forgotten what necessitated it, overwhelmed and stripped back by a desperate need to be away, anywhere, not this endless, beautiful, terrible nowhere. You race down glittering corridors, crystalline mirrors throwing your reflection back at you, shattered so that you appear in a thousand places at once. Running to yourself. Fleeing from yourself. Surrounded by a thousand you's, yet still feverishly, desperately alone.

You burst into another clearing and your panicked respiratory system finally catches up to you, seizes, flings you to the floor. Your body hurts, your breathing is short and sharp, and it's all you can do to focus on it, keep you from tumbling into an even more serious panic attack. Your eyes are wide open but you see nothing, your ears are uncovered but you hear nothing. Nothing but the click-click-click-whirr of a frantically ticking heart. Which is why it takes you a few times before you hear it, the sentient undulating, crashing of waves.

“Speak to me, Little One. Hmmn, I can sense you are distressed but I am unsure of how to assist, hmmn."

You roll onto your side, look up, and are surprised to see that, no, you were not dreaming. An alien creature squats awkwardly before you. Their body consists of a solid torso and long tail, mostly round and pudgy, except for its limbs, which are oddly gangly in comparison. Its skin is quite smooth, and possesses a cascading cerulean hue that darkens at its extremities and lightens towards its core, much like the crystals that adorn this place. They look reptilian in a way, like a lizard, or perhaps an eel as you had first assumed, except for an eyeless face which you can't help but feel is 'looking' at you.

Blinking, the words struggle in your throat. What words even are there that would be adequate? Yes, stranger, I would appreciate some help. Please don't hurt me. I don't know where I am, and I'm scared, and also who the hell are you, and why are you helping me? What do you want from me?

“I think you can understand me, but if you cannot speak, then perhaps body language shall suffice, hmmn? Simply nod or shake your head as required. I have seen something like this before, and I may have a way of easing your symptoms, but it will require me to handle you directly, hmmn. Do you consent, Little One?"

What can you do? What choice do you have? You nod.

The creature waddles their way over to you on all fours, though their awkward gait belies a limp of some kind. Your body tenses as they squat on their haunches, their face and hands just beyond your vision. Fingertips, cool and precise, trace gentle furrows up your back, over the contours of your shoulder blades, and come to rest upon your neck. A pause, and then the pressure mounts, slowly, but not to an uncomfortable degree, as they rub consistent circles into your neck, along your spine. You feel a flush of heat from your shoulders to your hips, which is replaced by a soft buzz, and soon after the tension begins to leave your body. You lay there a while, even after your breathing eases and your heart returns to a regular pace, with your eyes closed. The creature seems content to sit their in silence with you. It's… nice.

Eventually they stop, and you can't help but be a little disappointed. You sit up, back away, pull your knees to your chest, and the both of you simply look at each other for a while longer, waiting to see who might speak first. You lick your lips.

“Thank you," you say, figuring it would be rude not to. The creature's mouth splits in what is, you assume, a grin.

“Hmmn, think nothing of it. I remember my caretaker would do such things for me when I was barely more than a tadpole. I think it made my siblings jealous, the extra attention I received, hmmn. But they did not know its price. However, that is neither here nor there."

“Your siblings? Are they here with you?"

“Siblings, yes, I am but one son among many, with twice as many sisters. A few hundred, all up. But, no, hmmn, they are not here. Just yourself and I, I'm afraid, dear Little One."

“Why is that?" you ask, though you're not sure why. Perhaps you are just delaying the more important questions. The creature's lips quirk, but aside from that his eyeless gaze makes his expression difficult to read.

“Hmmn. I am what your species might call a 'black sheep'. I should very much like to behold one of these sheep myself, one day. Hmmn…" His words end in a burbling hum, somewhere deep down his throat, as he becomes lost in thought. You take the time to study him further, and are surprised by the length of his neck. It must be quite exceptional, for it coils back upon itself like a scarf. You also notice his left arm, now clearly held off to the side, which has become discoloured and atrophied, held in place by a stasis ring. It brings back long buried memories of your own organic arm, before it had been replaced. You haven't thought of that for a long while.

“Who are you? And what are you, if you don't mind me asking? I haven't met your species before." To this, the alien clicks his tongue and holds one of his long digits up before him.

“Those questions are one and the same. Who am I, if not what I am? What am I, if not who I am? Hmmn. But, I've met your kind before, and what I believe you're asking is what you might call me. I am a newt, a time newt to be precise, but Newt suits well enough as a name, for we do not use names as you do. I'm also a merchant, of sorts, if you wish to call me that instead. This is my Bazaar, after all. Does that suffice, Little One?"

You nod, stand up, cross your arms.

“Why are you helping me?" Best to just get it over with now. Whatever he wants, you either have or you don't, no sense in delaying the inevitable. If you can't afford his price, and likely you can't, then it would be best to either fight (and die) now, or else leave immediately. You can't leave this debt hanging over your head, it gives him too much power over you.

But at this, Newt recoils. He ducks his head low, and the fingers of his good hand patter nervously down his chest. If he had eyes, they would be darting from side to side. This reaction is unexpected.

“Hmmn, yes, well… I should think, perhaps, goodness requires no reason, yes? It is its own reward, of course, of course. I merely… wanted to, is all. Think nothing of it. Nothing at all, no, no, hmmn…"

Your eyes narrow. Something about his reasoning strikes you as odd, incomplete. There is something you're missing here.

“I don't have any money," you say. Newt cringes even further inward, and his mouth works itself open and closed a few times before he responds.

“You do, actually, I found more Lunar Coins amongst your belongings. I didn't touch them, of course, they're all there. You needed one to arrive here, if you'll recall… hmmn. But that is irrelevant, I require no payment. Your p-p-," he stutters, smacks his lips, “presence is reward enough, Little One."

“My belongings? Where are-," and then you realise it. You're standing there on full display, nude as the day you were born, talking down to an alien creature in his place of business as if you had caught him stealing from the sweet jar. You immediately protect your modesty, and your briefly enjoyed position of power is reversed once again. “Where might I find them, please, Newt?"

“Of course, of course, I shall return your belongings post-haste. Remain here while I fetch them. Forgive any offence I may have caused, I did not intend it," assures Newt, scampering off to another cave, leaving you alone and nude in this unfamiliar cavern. Shuffling on the spot, you realise that Newt must be telling the truth to some extent, for a number of stone pedestals line the area, displaying objects of power, some quite rare, and all clearly for sale. And if this is a market, a Bazaar as he implied, then that meant a potential customer could arrive at any moment, in much the same way that you had. Hurry, Newt, hurry…

He returns before long, your belongings floating via stasis in the air alongside him. It's all there — your suit and undergarments, your helmet, your blaster and an assortment of blades, some relics and currency, a canteen… and that's it, the totality of your worldly possessions, all wrapped up in a bundle, carried without concern by a stranger you've just met. Newt lets the bundle gently down to the floor, and resumes a squatting position that you now realise is just neutral, rather than awkward.

“Thanks, Newt…," you mumble. Newt nods, doesn't move, doesn't make any motions, just sits there. Your hands are still covering your groin, and bending down to pick up your things is a treacherous prospect. Getting dressed is right out of the window. You clear your throat, but it doesn't seem to be a gesture that he understands. “Newt, would you mind if I had some privacy? I need to change."

Newt tilts his head.

“Of course, Little One, I can provide you with privacy if my presence is making you uncomfortable. Hmmn…" There's something in his voice, a softening of his tone, water receding from the shore. Is it hurt? He turns to leave again.

“No," you reach out, “it's not like that. I don't want to be alone, I just… our species tends to find nudity… uncomfortable. Someone else seeing us nude, rather. I can't get dressed if you're looking at me." Newt turns back to face you, fingers tapping along his jaw in a gesture that undeniably signifies curiosity.

“Though it is a strange concept, I believe I follow. Are you ashamed of your body, Little One?"

You have to think about that one.

“Not… in a manner relevant to this discussion, no."

“I see. And does my nudity upset you, also?"

“No, of course not. You're beautiful." What was that? Did you mean to say that?

“Hmmn, hmmn… you're aware that I have no eyes with which to see as you do, Little One?"

That… is a good point that you hadn't really considered. It is a touch embarrassing, but still it doesn't make much difference to how you feel. Before you can respond, Newt continues.

“We newts detect our surroundings through a complex system of time-based feedback, like sonar, but a million times more precise. All mass holds some inertial resistance to the flow of time, no matter how tiny, and that resistance is detectable by the biology of my species. I can 'see' every contour of your body, clothed or otherwise, and I needn't be facing you to do so. It is an omnidirectional sense. So I ask that you forgive me for not understanding, hmmn… If it helps, I can tend to my stock while you clothe yourself?"

It's all a bit much, and you're not sure you really understand, but it's a good enough answer. You know, logically, it shouldn't matter, but you're still relieved when Newt turns away from you and starts rummaging around his store. You grab your things and head over to a quiet corner to get dressed. As you pull on your leggings, it strikes you that this is not, in any way, a situation you had ever considered you might be in. Newt is wandering around his store, burbling a tune you've never heard, oblivious to the world around him. You sit down and watch him for a while, indulging in this moment of true calm, with no pressures to move, to fight, no mounting dread at the prospect of what might be around the corner. Just you, and Newt, enjoying, if not each other's company, that at least each other's non-threatening presence. Well, perhaps that's more your thought than his.

But then, of course, reality sets in, a cold descent from brain to heart, heart to stomach. Peace is mercurial, a temporary alleviation, a taste to remind you of what you can't have, and then gone, slipped between fingers now matter how hard you try to hold on. And the harder you do try to keep it, the more it hurts to let it go. You can't stay here, he's going to want you out any second now. Whatever purpose you might have served, whatever curiosity of his you might have satiated, that's all over with now. You are without worth. Time to go.

Offering a silent 'thank you', you head towards the exit, still holding your suit in your hands. You walk as silently as you can, avoiding eye-contact with Newt as you leave, hoping he doesn't notice. You almost make it to the next chamber before you hear it.

“Wait… Little One, wait. Please… don't leave…"

Should you make a break for it? This isn't going to be easy, but… no, Newt deserved better than that. You clench your fist a few times, then turn to face him. Newt is struggling towards you, half-galloping, half-limping in a middling speed that is clearly pushing his limits. His exertion causes even longer pauses between his words than before, having to regularly suck in heavy lungfuls of air. When he finally stumbles into place before you, it takes him a few moments to gather himself, to slow his panting. His gallop has unlimbered his neck, which he now has to rest back into place.

“I'm sorry, Newt. I-."

“Don't go." There's something about his tone, about the way his hand once again runs pitter-patter down his chest, how his head can't seem to stay still, that all strikes you as incredibly earnest. “Please."

What the hell does he want?

“I told you, I don't have any money. Not enough to be of use to you, anyway."

“And I told you, I don't want your money, hmmn."

“I can't really work off my debt, either. In case you haven't noticed, I'm barely functional. I'd just get in your way, Newt. I appreciate your help, really I do, but it hasn't change who I am. I'm broken."

Newt recoils as if slapped. The two ridges of crystal that stick out from the top of his head, which you've been equating to human eyebrows, pinch closer together in a manner that makes him appear quite upset, which he clearly is.

“I'm not asking you to work. I'm asking you to stay. I'm asking for your company. I'm asking f-fo-." He shakes his head, his face relaxes, and he sits back on his haunches. “In case you haven't noticed, I know what it is like to feel… inadequate, hmmn…" Newt gestures to his deformed arm, hovering uselessly to his side.

You face each other for awhile, engaging in a silence that begins as uncomfortable and then, strangely, deepens to something… tolerable, if not enjoyable. You're not sure what to think. It is a pleasant mindlessness that you know will not last long, so you beat yourself to the punch instead. Action without thought, a necessity at times.

“Okay," you say, not even bothering to ask any of the many questions that begin circling your thoughts like a pack of hungry, doubting wolves, “I'll stay."

Newt heaves a massive sigh, almost seeming to deflate as the tension leaves his body. For someone with only half a face, it is amusing how easy he is to read at times. He waddles over to you on two legs, presses himself against you, curls his body almost entirely around yours, and grabs your free hand with his own. His skin is cool to the touch, but quite smooth, almost slick, even. It's odd. Not bad, just odd. You're not sure what he's up to, exactly. You can assume it's an intimate gesture, but beyond that you're simply left to guess, and your curiosity only grows as he remains wrapped around you for much longer than you expected. Then, suddenly, he is off, tugging you along behind him.

“Hmmn, come, Little One, come. We have much to discuss… yes, yes…," Newt mumbles under his breath, leading you to a cavern beyond the many trinkets and pedestals of his bazaar. What can you do but follow?

***

You spend a few hours doing little but talking with Newt. Well, mostly he talks, and you listen, answering questions as and when they come. He reveals himself to be a scientist, of sorts, and has an avid interest in the customs and cultures of other peoples. You try your best, but really you feel like you're not helping as much as you should be. You've spent too much time alone, disconnected, to give an accurate representation of where you come from. You're more of a tool, than a person, made to be used, and then discarded.

“I disagree," he says, turning from his work bench to look at you. You blink. You hadn't really meant to share that last part, at least not in the frank way you'd said it, but still it had slipped out. Something about Newt's presence disarms you, loosens some of the restraints you've held onto so long. You're not used to it.

“Sorry," you say, “I didn't mean it like that. I meant-."

He 'looks' at you. Just looks at you, for a while. What does he want? Why isn't he saying anything? You start to say something, anything, just to clear some of the discomfort away, but a yawn escapes your lips instead.

“You're tired," he says, dropping whatever he was working on. You try to wave him off, assure him that, no, you're fine, but he ignores your protests and ushers you to your feet and out of the room. “I apologise, dear Little One, hmmn. I hadn't noticed you were so exhausted. What a terrible host I am, hmmn. I do hope you'll forgive me."

Again you try to assure him that it's nothing, that you feel fine, but your body betrays you with another yawn, this one deeper than the last. All at once, it seems, the day catches up with you, the energy spent being on guard in an unfamiliar place, the energy spent fending off panic attacks, the energy spent racking your brain to engage in good and polite conversation with this magnificent creature, it all builds up and then oozes out of you. You need sleep. Real sleep, not the recovery-based rest you'd been having until today (a complex medical experiment involving interfering with the passage of time in a controlled vacuum, according to Newt).

The room you find yourself in is much smaller than any of the others so far, more intimate, and darker. The crystal of the cave walls still holds a sheen, but without any artificial light to spark against it they become muted, manageable. There is a simple pallet in the middle of the floor, more than large enough for a time newt, which means it's big enough for you to spread your arms and legs and still not touch the edges. Which, naturally, you try immediately.

“Leave some room for the rest of us, Little One." You hear the sound of seawater tumbling against the base of a cliff… laughter?

“Oh, sorry," you say, getting back to your feet, “this is your bed?"

Newt nods.

“And where am I sleeping?"

Newt looks at you. He's quite good at that.

“Oh. I-,"

“I live alone, Little One. Hmmn, does this arrangement discomfort you?" By now Newt has circled his pallet once, twice, then settled down on his haunches.

“No, no. No, of course not."

“Than relax, dear friend, relax." At this, the time newt stretches, seeming to unwind like a ball of twine cut loose, reminding you just how long his limbs are, his tail, his looping neck, until at last he recedes back into the blue ball known as 'Newt'. He lays down on his side, facing you, resting his heavy head upon his free hand, supported by his elbow. You'd say he was posing, if only the very concept wasn't so absurd.

With little other option, you also lay down, placing yourself in the very centre of the pallet, facing away from him. The bedding is softer than you expected. It smells like Newt, the earthy scent of petrichor.

“Do you wish to share body warmth, Little One?"

Does he do it on purpose? How does he so consistently set you off balance without even seeming to try? You deflect to buy time.

“Do time newts sleep as we do?"

“Hmmn, I suppose the short answer is yes, we may choose to rest for determinate stretches of time in a manner that you might recognise as 'sleeping', though we do not attain a truly unconscious state in doing so. The long answer, which I will shorten for your tired sake, is that no, when we must truly 'sleep' we detach ourselves from the stream of time and hibernate in pocket dimensions. These sojourns can take anywhere from six standard months to six hundred standard years. Does that satisfy your curiosity, Little One?"

“Yes," you mumble, but then a stab of panic. “Does that mean you won't be here when I wake up?"

“Unless there is an emergency, hmmn, I will not leave your side."

You continue chatting like this for long into the night, even though you can tell Newt is restraining himself from engaging you in anything too difficult for your deteriorating lucidity to keep up with. He must be bubbling at the surface to ask you any number of questions, which he's sure to keep in mind and bombard you with tomorrow, but for now he restrains himself. For that, you are grateful.

Whilst try to stay engaged for as long as you can, you soon realise you've been talking for more than just politeness' sake. You can feel it, that familiar tick-clicking in your chest, the irregularity of your breathing. You know it's irrational, you know it's unfounded, but you're in a place you've never been before, with a person you've really only met recently, and the thought of closing your eyes, of sleep, of letting your guard down completely, is just too difficult to accept.

So you struggle, even after the conversation dies, after you've squeezed your eyes shut, to stamp it all down, to bottle up the tension and store it away for another day. You try to pay attention to your breathing — in through the nose, out through the mouth — but thoughts of disappointing Newt distract your focus, and you're forced back to square one again and again and again. It's not fair, not just for you, but for Newt, too. He will be so insulted to know that you don't feel safe around him, to know that you view him as a threat. You're spitting in the face of his hospitality and it's so simple not to. All you have to do is breathe, just breathe, that's all. Everyone can do it, so why can't you? He's going to notice, and he's going to kick your ungrateful ass out into the wild, where you might find your way out of here, or you might fall off a cliff and die, and either way good riddance. And all because you can't do one simple, little thing. You're broken. Worse than broken. Detestable. A waste of the oxygen you clearly don't respect. He's going to hate you. He hates you, and—

“Do you consent?"

A gentle wave, gliding over an unburdened shore, whispered right into your ear. Eyes still screwed shut, you can't manage anything but a whimper, which he takes as the affirmation you intend. Newt's fingers send a rolling shiver through your spine from the very moment they press down on your bare skin. Skin? He must have unzipped the back of your suit to access it. You don't care. His fingers glide, leaving behind trails of electricity that send hot flushes down to your extremities. His digits find their way back to that familiar spot, settle, and begin their divine vibration. Your fear, your panic, your irregularities, all melt away, become distant, unimportant. There is only you, and Newt, and his holy hand. You don't even remember falling asleep.

***

The following days blend into a warm haziness with the two of you enjoying the unexpectant, unconditional, pressure-less pleasure of each other's company. In defiance of your prior claims to the opposite, you do help assist Newt with his work, beginning with easy, if mundane jobs, such as stock-taking and organising, but quickly progressing to gathering supplies and helping with experiments. With little scientific know-how of your own to apply, often that last job falls down to listening to Newt lecture as he fiddles away with alien technology, providing the appropriate 'hmm's' and 'yes, I see's' when required. That, or volunteering to be experimented upon yourself, which is not as bad as you expected, owing to Newt's constant reassurances and check-ins on your comfort levels.

The only thing to cause anything approaching discomfort is when a customer arrives, being something you're not quite prepared for yet, but even then you merely let Newt take care of it. He never pressures you to talk with anyone, only asks for your occasional advice on avoiding trans-cultural faux pas after the fact. He finds you some new clothes (some baggy robes which you must tie up at the waist so they do not trail along the floor, and a one-piece suit which clings so tightly to your groin and shoulders that you wonder if its not more appropriate to go without them), and even food that, if not exactly delicious, is at least edible, with enough stores to last you a while. Newt is a bit of a miserable cook despite his enthusiasm, but that's okay because so are you.

Your days spent with Newt are calm, displaced from the chronology of your life until this point, as if you'd been plucked from one timestream and placed into the next. Maybe this isn't what you expected, maybe it isn't even real, but it is yours now, and you're not going to give up on it without a fight. You're going to have to leave at some point, sure, but with Newt's assurances that he will pick up more human food and clothing on his next business trip, that he'll clear out one of his store rooms for you to use as a private living area, well, you feel something akin to hope. If he's planning that far ahead, then maybe you have a place here. Something solid, anchored.

Your nights are much the same, too, with you telling Newt he needn't bother resting with you every night as you know it isn't typical for his species and him, insisting rather thoroughly, on staying by your side every time regardless. Is it just in case you have an attack? But even those have been bothering you less and less, and becoming less severe when they do appear. Each night begins the same, with you laying down in the middle of the pallet, talking with him — serious talk, casual talk, playful talk — until you fall asleep, and always it ends with you waking in the crook of his torso, face pressed up against his chest, his body curled around you.

It must be a body warmth thing just like he said, you figure one night, in the quiet moments between the end of your talk and the beginning of sleep. Are time newts cold-blooded? You endeavour to ask him in the morning, but then another thought strikes you. Does he consider it rude how you continue to sleep away from him, yet come to nestle against him in the middle of your sleep with such obvious regularity? You can't really be blamed for the actions of your unconscious self, surely, but that might not be how he sees it. As if, perhaps, he is not good enough to rest with whilst lucid, only there as a comfort once the veil of sleep has been drawn and personal responsibility been discarded? And you're not even sure for how much of it all he is even asleep for. He says he's 'resting', but that could mean anything. Perhaps you should sleep further away, at the very other end of the pallet, so as not to bother him at all. Or perhaps…

You shuffle closer to Newt, not close enough to touch, but close enough that you can feel his presence, hear his soft breathing. Is that good enough? Perhaps…

“Do you wish to mate, Little One?"

Your eyes snap open.

“What?"

“You've bedded down closer to me this night, and you've spent half of every night prior aroused, so I assumed… hmmn… Forgive me, I've offended again."

“No," you blurt out, “no, that's not it. What do you mean I've spent half of every night aroused?"

Newt considers you for a moment, and you might have felt stupid if you weren't so overwhelmingly mortified.

“Your phallus," he begins, and you wilt even further, “stiffens repeatedly throughout your sleep, and more frequently the closer to my body you are. I figure your mating rituals may be more complex than ours, but it seemed to me like a clear indication. Hmmn… If you're not interested, then-."

“No! I mean, not no, but… I mean, does that idea… interest you?"

“Of course it does, Little One. I do know that both our species mate for pleasure as well as procreation. In fact, we are remarkably similar in that regard, hmmn… It might be a good alternative method for helping you to relax."

Your face is on fire. How foolish this all was. Not long ago you were ready to accept your impending non-existence, and now here you find yourself discussing sex with an alien. A big, attractive, charming alien.

“So I assume," you say, trying to keep your voice steady, to keep the tone of the conversation casual, “since you said you were 'one son among many', that you'd be considered male?"

“As male as you clearly are, Little One," he says, reminding you of your initial nude encounter. He must have caught you surreptitiously scoping out his nude crotch, for he smiles and gestured at it. “It is internal. Would you like to see?"

“Uhmm… uhh…"

“Right, sorry, hmmn. You haven't yet answered my question. Do you wish to mate?"

Do you? Well, you do, clearly, but can you just say that? Out loud? Isn't that just… No. No, you're thinking about this the wrong way. Think on Newt's terms, be honest, be open, be respectful. He deserves nothing less.

“Yes, it is my wish to engage in sexual intercourse with you." Well, at least you tried.

Newt sits up, suddenly giddy. He's so excited that his neck is unspooling and resettling, almost bouncing upon his shoulders.

“Marvellous! Let us begin right away. I want to learn as much about your practices as you do mine, so what say you to a proposal? Say… hmmn, you show me one of your human displays of sexuality, and then I'll show you one of mine?"

Yes it's weird, and yes you don't really know what you're doing, but Newt's innocent enthusiasm is so infectious that you can't help but be swept up in it. So yes, fine, you'll do it his way. Why not? You stand up (placing you at pectoral height to the sitting Newt), place your hands on your hips, and consider it.

“Hmm, well-."

“Shouldn't you disrobe, first? If I am to access your genitals I would need you to disrobe… hmmn, ah, I have made another faux pas, haven't I? One of your mating rituals requires clothing?"

“No. Well, perhaps… but, no, not in this case. I mean…," you sigh, take one more deep breath, and then do as he says. Your robe (the ill-fitting one) comes off easily, and you leave it on the floor beside you. You have no undergarments on, of course, because you only have the one pair that you brought with you, so they have to be worn sparingly. It's a strange feeling standing nude in front of Newt, knowing what you now know, because he hardly reacts. He has no eyes, of course, but as he had said earlier, he can 'see' your entire body with or without clothes. You may as well be perpetually nude around him, which skims off some of the embarrassment. A little bit.

You study him, trying to figure out how best to go about this. There was quite the size difference to account for, after all, and other biological differences that made one-to-one imitations of human sex acts difficult. You consider truncating, paraphrasing the human experience into something more comfortable for him to experience but, no, Newt hadn't asked for simplicity. You'll just have to try your best, and come to a compromise later when you're more in tune with each other. Assuming there will be a later, of course.

“Okay, stay seated, then. I'm going to climb into your lap."

Newt nods enthusiastically, staying stock still as you follow through. You reach out and steady yourself against his torso, using it to pull yourself into his lap. Standing on his thighs, you press your face against his wide chest, and for a few moments you just stay there. This close, you can't help but notice just how different the two of you really are. You; small, fragile, and he; solid, grounded, and strong. And yet something has bound you together, some shared thread of pain, of loneliness, that has twisted the two of you into irregular patterns, strange shapes, fitting into nothing, into nowhere, except, maybe, for each other.

You pull back from his chest and realise he's watching you, still grinning, still exuberant, even if he's calmed down a little. You reach up and take his huge head in your hands, so wide across that your arms almost struggle to contain it. He is so pliant, so willing to let you take control. He has no hesitation, no doubts, in him you sense a trust so primal that it is a struggle to comprehend. You can do anything, anything you want. So, you kiss him.

Sure, it's awkward, and strange — his lips are, funnily enough, both too large to adequately envelop, and too thin to find much purchase — but you do the best you can. You pull him down further, so that you have more than just the precarious stability of the tips of your toes, and kiss your way further up along his mouth, both sides. You dare, finally, to slip your tongue past the guard of his lips, to which he responds with a deep, chesty burble. He doesn't pull back, or complain, so you assume it to be a positive sound, and keep up your attentions. When you feel you've passed the point of demonstration, and you begin to feel a little silly, you instead kiss up from Newt's lips to the flat, eyeless crown of his head, as if to sign off your display of affection.

You pull back, his heavy head still resting in your palms.

“Well?"

Newt grins even wider than before.

“Fantastic! Simply, hmmn, astounding! I wish to partake in this ritual, too. We don't have anything similar, hmmn, as most all of our sex acts involve the genitals, so forgive my enthusiasm but it really does intrigue me. What do you call it?"

“A kiss?" you supply, outwardly embarrassed but inwardly proud at having impressed him so.

“A kiss, excellent. I wish to kiss you, Little One. May I?"

Another question that flusters you in its reckless simplicity. You nod.

Newt leans forward, his arm reaching around to snag you from behind, and pulls you into a 'kiss' of his own. He begins similarly to you, pressing his lips to yours (or in the general vicinity of your face, rather), but the dissimilar biology prevents him from kissing in the same way as a human. You expected as much, and aren't disappointed by it, instead choosing to bask in the infectious nature of his attentive energy. What you don't expect, however, is for him to let slip his enormously long tongue, which he proceeds to slather over every inch your face. It is much wetter, slimier almost, than any human tongue, and with a prehensile range of motion and strength that you are utterly unprepared for.

You try to protest but he has you stifled by tongue-flesh, which he drags over your cheeks, forehead, around your ear to the back of your neck… He has your head entangled enough that you can't pull away, leaving you with little else but to stare straight ahead, down into the cavernous depths of his gullet. A brief spike of fear, quashed immediately. You're beyond that, now, especially with the trust Newt's shown you so far. Still, some breathing space would be appreciated. You tap his head, softly at first, and then again with a touch more urgency.

Newt responds, unwinding his dripping tongue from around your head like a wet towel, giving you a chance to draw in a ragged breath.

“Newt, be car-."

His tongue pushes past your open lips, invades your mouth, filling it almost entirely. Its presence flattens your own tongue against your mouth floor, forces your jaws a little wider. Hand braced behind your waist, he lifts you up, holds you, places you back down on the pallet beneath him, and repositions himself over the top of you. You can't do anything, not really, as you find yourself flattened, pinned by an immovable weight, this creature's tongue edging its way further and further down your throat. It really should be terrifying — he could completely crush you simply by relaxing his body — but you've been emboldened already, solidified your trust in Newt into an iron core that staves off any doubts. Strangely enough, pinned as you are with no possibility of escape, you get the curious thought that you've never felt safer in your life.

Closing your eyes, Newt delves even further inside, pushing past your gag reflex without thought, his thick tongue flicking at the walls of your oesophagus, causing sections of your throat to slightly bulge as he writhes ever onward. It's difficult, but not impossible to withstand, but just as you are finally begin to learn how to coexist in such close quarters, to begin to contest the assault, he suddenly pulls his tongue free all at once. A long strand of thick, oozing saliva bridges the two of you together as you pant, reorient yourself.

“Fuck!"

“Was that an acceptable effort, hmmn?"

A few more breaths, to still your ticking heart, to deal with the warmth that has spread through your chest and turned your thought processes to sludge.

“Yes, that was acceptable…"

Taking a little while longer to settle down, to wipe some of the saliva from your face, you can tell from the electricity in the air that Newt is still worked up, excitable. So are you, really. You've never been harder in your entire life, in fact.

“Now I wish to show you one of mine. May I?"

“You don't have to ask, Newt," you say, waving away his concerns, “you can do whatever you'd like."

“Excellent. Now, do stay still."

You don't even bother to ask what it is you'll be staying still for, trusting yourself in his care once again as he lifts you from the pallet. Newt's large, smooth body curls itself around yours completely, his neck unspooling, and even his tail incorporating itself into the hot, fleshy yarn ball, with you at its centre. It is similar to what he'd done with you before, only more intimate, more complex, a manoeuvre that leaves you entirely restrained. It's an odd position you find yourself in, and Newt bobbing his head down before you, looking in your eyes even as he's straddling your back, makes it even odder. It makes it seem like his neck is on back to front. What's even more shocking is the soft wetness now pressed up against your stiffened cock.

You shiver, a full body tremble that you follow up with a whimper. You can't see anything, of course, but it's not hard to assume what's going on down below. Newt, now in position, is gyrating his hips, grinding his slick vent against your groin. His genital slit must protrude somewhat when aroused, because you've never seen anything of note up until this point that could otherwise be providing this glorious sensation — in fact, you've never even noticed a genital slit at all. And yet what you're feeling, what you're being assaulted with, is a bulging pair of lips that threatens to envelop your manhood entirely, so warm that it borders on hot, and so… slick, coated in its own drooling fluids, and all of it is so obviously, wildly aroused. You'd have to be as blind as Newt not to notice this before, if it were this apparent.

“This is a technique most commonly employed by females in heat, a quick debilitation and restriction of the male's mobility, followed by an aggressive and obvious display of arousal, designed to entice the male into wishing to mate. Of course, they have little choice by that point, but the illusion of such a decision does help soften the blow to their masculinity."

“Newt…," you groan, but he doesn't hear you.

“Naturally, the female would then extract as much of the male's seed as she required — again, not his choice — until she was satisfied, at which point she would disengage at her leisure and leave him to recover. Hmmn. The practice has been adapted over time, as you can tell, and is now used by males in more casual or romantic situations, such as this one." Newt continues his erotic display even as he lectures you, your length occasionally plunging briefly into his slit, and then slipping out again, without him seeming to notice.

“Newt…!" Still no acknowledgement.

“Whilst not quite as stimulating for the male as complete penetration with the phallus, it has an additional goal of encouraging the production of seminal fluids, so as to provide a more virile load upon climax. Of course, this isn't particularly relevant, given both our shared sex and differing species, but I find the act rather gratifying regardless. What do you think, Little One?"

“NEWT!"

He finally notices your distress, and slows his grinding motions. He looks at you, and you could imagine his proverbial eyelashes aflutter in astonished confusion.

“That is great and all," you say, panting, “but this scientific biology talk isn't exactly the most arousing… and you've almost made me blow like three times already. I do appreciate you sharing this with me, but… do you think you could put me down?"

“Oh, oh yes, certainly. Hmmn, apologies, Little One, I seem to have gotten carried away again." He continually apologises as he uncurls himself from around you, the solid bands of his neck and arms and tail uncoiling, depositing you on the floor. You take another steadying breath, just one of the many you've needed and will need tonight, and then turn to face him.

Newt has bared himself to you completely, his tail thrust out before him in a posture you don't often see, leaning back with his legs spread. He sports an erection of his own, a rigid length of lavender flesh that quivers visibly in time with his heartbeat. It has a base that bulges out thicker than its spade-like tip, and the entire thing is completely slick from tip-to-slit. Newt's cock is about three times bigger than your own, if not more, and that's without accounting for width.

“Newt, I-," you blanch, lick your lips, “I can't handle that. Not without lots of practice, at least."

He studies your body even as you study his, long tongue lolling lazily from his maw.

“I would not expect you to. I am accounted as rather large for my size, speaking relatively, of course. Hmmn. That said, our species is not renowned for its penis-to-body-size ratio as you humans clearly are." Is he… drooling?

“Okay…" You take a step closer and, gathering your courage, straddle the base of Newt's sturdy tail. You can't take your eyes away from his crotch, which is throbbing so close to you now that you just have to reach out to touch it… “I don't see a, umm… anywhere to penetrate." Some of the air you hadn't realised you'd been holding escapes your lungs as you press your dick against his, hold it there, let it be coated in Newt's natural lubricants. His member is softer than you'd expected, more pliable, and as you wrap your hands around it, your thumbs keeping your cocks pressed together, you find yourself wanting to explore even more of Newt's intricacies.

Newt seems content not to answer, at least right now, and judging by the strange sounds coming from within his chest, and the occasional trembling of his pelvic region, you can assume he is enjoying this as much as you are. Eventually he unravels himself a little, leans forward, and reaches for you with his good hand. His fingers trace down your face, over your exposed chest, both mechanical and organic parts, around your back, to your hips… and then he forcefully tugs you towards him. Unprepared for this, you fall forward on to your stomach, sandwiching his drooling monster between the two of you.

“It is there, I assure you, Little One. Whilst apparently small at first, the entrance of a time newt's genital canal is quite elastic, and it will adapt to considerable widths when aroused. Hmmn. Which I must admit, I very much am. Please," he intones, deeper and more serious than he has been so far, “commence..." That gets you going more than anything else so far. Despite being quite a polite person, the last and only time Newt has said 'please' to you, you recall, was when he had been begging you to not leave him. It must be a term he treasures highly, uses only in moments of complete and honest vulnerability. And, in this situation, it makes you rock hard.

You fumble around your crotch, grab your cock, and guide it. You press your tip first against Newt's length, then trail it down, trying to use its centre as a guiding line. You feel the warmer lips of Newt's highly aroused slit, but can't quite find the right angle for entry. A blush colours your cheeks, not wishing to make a fool of yourself in front of someone you're trying to impress. You'd think with a body much bigger than your own the hole would be much easier to find, but alas, some struggles really do seem universal…

Newt rolls his tail like a wave, shoving you from behind and forcing you again onto your stomach. You might have complained, perhaps, if he hadn't also forced you balls deep into his desperately warm, lubricant-slick genital canal. Like his cock, it pulses in time with his heartbeat, a powerful suction that tugs on your length twice every four seconds. True to his word, Newt has adapted to your size, proving to be a much snugger fit than a creature his stature might suggest.

“Oh, you found it, well done." Was that… sarcasm? From Newt? “You may proceed, hmmn." He's smiling at you, you smile back, but your grin quickly becomes sheepish.

“Right, just uhh, give me a second."

“Is something the matter?"

“No, no, I just almost came already. Let me just say that it's, uhh, been a while for me, to put it mildly. I'm afraid I might not be able to live up to those tales of human sexual prowess."

“Little One, you've made me happier than I've been in years. Your company is all I ask for, everything else you may or may not supply is more than an old newt like me deserves, hmmn."

What the hell? How does he do that so consistently? Disarm you, dress you down, so casually, without thought or effort. Your heart is ticking like mad. No one has ever said anything like that to you before. Not ever.

“Umm…" How do you respond to that? “How old are you, then, if I might ask?" Decidedly unsexy talk, sure, but you still need to buy yourself some time to cool off.

Newt scratches at his chin, lost in preponderance.

“I believe it will be coming upon my one-thousand two-hundred and sixty-eighth standard year in the next few weeks. Hmmn."

“Oh, wow, I see. Umm, well how do-."

“Little One?" he interrupts, short and sharp. “Breed me. Now." You swallow, and nod. It was not a request.

Bracing yourself against Newt's torso, your legs hanging down past his tail, you do as you are told and begin to 'breed'. Each time you thrust your hips forward, your crotch meets with Newt's dribbling vent, eliciting a loud, wet slap, and each time you pull back your evacuation is followed by lewd squelches. Within just a minute you are a complete mess, your groin drenched in his juices. You sink in so easily, and yet the velvety walls of his slit resist your efforts to unsheathe, wrapping themselves around you, creating a silken seal so immensely pleasurable that it drives you to levels of lust you've never experienced.

You become like an animal possessed, rutting away at Newt with frenzied determination — a quality you haven't exhibited for a very long time. You feel a touch of disappointment, being so close to his copiously-drooling member yet paying so little attention to it. You resolve to make up for that fact, later, but you are too wrapped up in your own pleasure to give it the attention it deserves right now.

Glancing up, you see that Newt is laying on his back completely at ease, his serpentine neck swaying in the waves of his own lust. He, too, begins to buck his hips, meeting your thrusts halfway, repeatedly forcing you to hilt within him. His cock is twitching violently now, spasming over and over again. Newt lets out a rumbling croon and he half sits up, pelvic muscles convulsing, maw hanging loose, as he suddenly shoots a thick load of pale cum across his chest. He twitches again, and again, each time shooting a rope thicker than the last, that splatters him from collarbone to stomach.

You hesitate in the wake of his orgasm. Should you continue, or stop? But Newt gives you no choice. With each climactic convulsion, his tunnel milks you hard, its walls undulating in waves around your utterly outmatched member. You couldn't pull out even if you tried — not that escaping this nirvana was ever a consideration. But as all good things must come to an end, Newt draws from your lips one last ragged gasp, and drives you to climax. You pump into Newt, what you consider to be, the single largest load of your entire life. He takes it all and, greedily, continues milking a full minute after your orgasm, ensuring you've spared not a single drop, and leaving you oversensitive and exhausted.

You collapse forward — into a pool of sexual fluids — and Newt collapses backward — his neck unspooling— and neither of you say anything for a solid minute. You breathe in his petrichor scent, his taste, and take the time to acclimatise yourself to his shape, his presence. As sticky and, honestly, gross as you may be right now, you don't mind the situation you find yourself in. It feels… right. This is right. Being close to Newt is right.

“That was quite intriguing," says Newt. Not quite what you wanted to hear, but you'll take it. “Your species, while prolific in all matters sexual, has a long refractory period, correct?"

“Well, I guess that depends on how you define 'long'."

“A male time newt will climax an average of seven times per copulation, as a comparative example."

As hot as the thought of making Newt blast six more times may be, you are too exhausted, not just physically, but also emotionally, to continue.

“I'm sorry, Newt," you say, “I don't think I have it in me right now."

You feel him shift beneath you, and then you are being pulled up, dragged over his stomach, his torso, to end up on chest. Your face rests at the base of his neck, which is now returned to a neutral, coiled position.

“Do not apologise, Little One, hmmn. As I said, your company is more than enough for me."

You're not sure whether its the words themselves, or just how utterly drained you are, or just about every moment you've experienced since first meeting Newt — or perhaps a combination of all three — but his assurance hits you differently this time. Tears build and fall silently from the corner of your eyes, and you can't help yourself. You know it's silly and certainly not romantic, you're still covered in alien spunk after all, but in this moment everything else falls away. There is just you and Newt together, and for once in your life, your company is enough. You are enough. You wrap your arms around as much of his neck as you can manage, press your face into his gentle flesh, and begin to twine the many listless, yearning strands of yourself around this new, living, cobalt core. And you breathe. Just breathe.

“Thank you," you whisper.

“Thank you," he whispers back.