His Only || Newt Scamander

Ocean Conservation

Newt himself was in such a state of anticipation that he could hardly hear what the man said.

"Oh, I think she's actually..."

"Wyck, where have you been? Mr. Nanson has been waiting for his second round from poison control for over..." Adelaide came to a sudden stop from her determined, fast-paced walk. She whipped her eyes to the man standing beside her newfound friend and immediately felt a trickle of ice water fall down her back.

"Adelaide."

She couldn't even handle him saying her name, let alone his tone of voice, "Wyck, if you would move along with your rounds this instant I won't report you on the board. We've got plenty of healers on the main floor."

Smethwyck was slowly turning his head between the couple in front of him before leaning away with his hands in the air, "Okay - alright, hold up a second. I'm sorry Anna, but this guy says he knows you and wants to talk to you."

She was refusing to make eye contact with Newt, putting on a brave face and a stiff upper lip, "Well, I think I've done that enough as of late, so will you please accompany me to the Creature-Induced Injuries ward - you've got a number of patients to look after before your shift is over."

In a short burst of energy, she flipped around to walk away, her shoes squeaking against the tile. Wyck hesitated only in such a pure moment of bewilderment before gasping at Newt's next words.

"Adelaide, love, please..."

"Don't call me that!" She turned towards him only enough to give him a steely gaze, "Wyck, if you're not by my side in the next ten seconds I'm going to take back your raise."

Smethwyck instantly skid to her side, stuttering a number of perplexed phrases her way, feeling a twinge of guilt towards the man they left behind in the waiting room.

Newt was having a similar reaction, his lips quivering with unsaid words towards the woman he sought after. And in the next instant, something quite inexplicable came over him - something no one could visibly see. But it sank deep into his bones, clawing up his chest into his burning cheeks and frazzled head.

His hope was being diminished. She wouldn't even talk to him. Wouldn't even look at him.

The pencils felt stiff in his fingertips, their function almost feeling foreign to his touch. The ache crept in his tendons, crawling venomously through his bloodstream and into his chest. It was the kind of ache that urged his limbs to work without much influencing thought.

His thoughts were too preoccupied to have a comprehensive reply. There was just too much bombardment sickening his nerves.

So regardless of this blank, robotic mentality consuming his rationale – his fingers continued to work. Those pencils of seemingly dim color remained in their rigid form, almost resistant in revealing their given hue. The faint light attempting to do their job only seemed to make the atmosphere danker.

The little brown notebook within his grasp gave the impression of frailty; the yellowing, crisp pages crinkled with any amount of pressure. And the image steadily growing upon it only made the sight even more debilitating.

Her structure was so soft, so fluid. The curve of her chin framed the frown he gave her – no demarcated dimple appearing. The flow of her hair washing over her shoulder brought the attention to the inky background. And though the shading brought definition to the piece, it did nothing to bring life to her cheeks.

He didn't remember seeing it.

The only colors within his reach determined what he knew her eyes to be.