Mercy

"Hey," Jacob said softly, pulling up a creaky chair beside the bed. (It was definitely more comfortable than the hardwood, clunky thing in his apartment, despite the wobbles.) He shuffled, unnerved by the Brit's quiet scrutiny, and ventured, "You, uh… feeling better?"

Well, that sounded awkward. "I mean, Bill said he fixed your arm up," Jacob hastily explained. "The break was … um…." More broken? First chance to have a decent one-sided conversation and he couldn't even form a plausible sentence.

"S'fine…."

Jacob almost fell out his chair at the first intelligible word. Curling into a rasping cough, Claude tucked his good arm against his chest and stared at the counter, where dark colored vials were wobbling midair.

"Dougal's been helping…." Claude hacked again, screwing up his face as a fleck of blood tainted the pillow. He ran his tongue over a split tooth and then pushed back the phial that materialized by his head. "N-Not now, Dougal, m'already twisted up inside from everything you shoved at me."

"Dougal?" Jacob wondered, squinting as more bottles clinked midair.

"S'a dameegus," Claude answered. At least it sounded like "dameegus". Could've been "Damascus" for all Jacob could make out. "Stop teasing 'im, Doug'l."

Silver fur ruffled as the yellow-eyed monkey appeared. It smiled at Jacob, cheeky and all-knowing, and pressed a green vial into Claude's hand.

"M'not taking it," the Brit rasped. He flopped his bad wrist, clearly a 'shooing' gesture, and sighed into the pillow.

"Huh. Invisible monkeys. What's next?" Jacob wasn't keen on finding out. The sun was setting and so were his eyelids. He jerked himself awake, shaking his head vigorously, and posed the question that had been bothering him all week. "What are all these animals, anyways? Nothing in America exists like … like that," he said, pointing to the Damascus. "I mean, I've seen lemurs overseas, but lemur don't change eye color and…."

He faltered, realizing he was running an interrogation and he didn't even know the basics about who the Brit was and why someone had bothered tracking him to the apartment.

"Sorry," Jacob blustered. He stuck out a hand, realizing belatedly that the gesture was pointless without two working right arms. "I'm Jacob Kowalski. We're at my friend Bill's house. You met Bill. He's the doctor with a sour attitude and a funny way of showing that he's worried about his patients."

After a moment's pause, Claude nodded. "Nuwd."

"Beg pardon?" Jacob blinked.

The Brit contorted as the act of clearing his throat turned into another string of painful coughs. The Damascus started thrusting bottles towards him again.

"Whoah, it's okay. We don't have to talk about it now." Jacob rushed to stand, looking for a bottle of elderberry syrup or whatever else Bill would have left behind for ailing lungs. He grabbed a steel flask, sniffed the contents, and shuddered at the tangy fumes. Best not to chance it. Bracing his hands haplessly at the monkey, he scanned the room frantically. No doctor's bag or anything that looked relatively safe.

As Claude continued to splutter, Jacob hesitantly approached the bedside and laid a hand between the Brit's shoulders, rubbing deep, even circles like his mamma used to do when he was sick. The Damascus eyed him warily, blue swirling for a moment, before the gold returned and it settled back like a frustrated parent.

"Easy… just breathe," Jacob murmured, nodding at the monkey. You can trust me. "In and out. There's enough air in the room."

Exasperated muscles continued to jump underneath his hand. Jacob brushed several feathers out of the way, glancing around the assortment of bottles one more time. Dougal pressed a padded, five-digit paw against his wrist. Insistently it held out a clear vial.

"Fine, I'll give it to him in a few minutes," Jacob swore, tucking the vial into his trouser pocket. The Damascus watched him reproachfully.

"He can't even swallow right now!" Jacob hissed. Claude choked as though to second that. Sniffing, Dougal turned its head away, and Jacob rolled his eyes.

Eventually the cough settled into ragged breathing. Claude shut his eyes, burying his face into the pillow, until the tension in his shoulders eased and the burgundy shade left his skin.

"All right," Jacob said softly, withdrawing his hand. "No talking for a while. Did Bill leave anything behind?"

"Sc'mner," Claude forced out. "Nudskmnder."

"Don't rush it," Jacob urged. He tucked the blankets around Claude's shoulders and lifted his head gently, turning the pillow over. Snuffling into the cooler fabric, Claude tried mumbling again.

"S'my name. Scmander."

Oh, so that was the salamander reference Bill had mentioned before. Jacob nodded lethargically. "Okay, Mister…. Sk'mander. We'll talk about it more in the morning."

Agitatedly Claude blew into the pillow. Too lethargic to sort out the Brit's problems, Jacob settled back into the chair and leaned his head against the wall. "Dougal, wake me up if he needs anything – anything. I'm just gonna get some shut-eye before Bill gets back."

The Damascus renewed its fussing over Claude as Jacob groggily shut his eyes.

He wasn't used to dreaming much, but this time his sleep was filled with fantastical creatures tramping through New York. Some of them were monsters, smashing through walls, and some of them were outrageous, like the mole that Claude had to chase down in a jewelry store, while some were downright….

Terrifying.

The black vortex screamed down in the last seconds of his dream and Jacob woke in a cold sweat. He jolted, whacking his head against the wall, and stared into the dark room for long minutes, convincing himself that the writhing evil wouldn't reappear.

It was still dusk in Claude's world when Jacob left the shack, staring at the crack of white where the froth of darkness was penned. He hugged himself, cold and shaken, and retreated to the staircase.

The molding horrors that waited in Bill's icebox would be less traumatic than what lay below. Besides, Jacob was certain that Claude would be hungry the next time he woke.

Before venturing to the kitchen, Jacob peeked into the dusty study and the living room. Both were empty, and the coat rack was undisturbed.

Whatever was keeping Bill for so long, Jacob prayed that it wasn't a dead child.

The icebox was dusty like the rest of the kitchen, worn at the handle, with a note glued to the door dating last week's milk. A hundred shreds of paper testified previous records. Jacob pulled the door ajar, curled his nose at the green powdered, untouched loaf of bread, and tossed it out to retrieve a jar of broth that had Bill's "It's okay brought it home Thursday" tag, and a bottle of buttermilk which – upon smelling – was deemed fairly fresh.

"Well, he can have the broth, but I'm starved," Jacob muttered as he weighed the jar in his hand, wondering how much he could get Claude to eat. He looked around the cluttered kitchen and shook his head. "Aw, Bill, how'd you survive all these years?"

Apparently doctors thrived on coffee and penicillin. Bakers, on the other hand, needed heartier meals. Clearing a space for the chilled foods, Jacob rolled up his sleeves, snatched up a towel to use as an apron, and tackled the clutter. The kitchen sink was cleared – oatmeal crusted pot, two plates and a single, over-used spoon scrubbed with scalding, soapy water – the groceries were sorted (not that there was much to be salvaged, except for a few potatoes and a handful of drooping carrots that had probably been donated by a grateful farmwife), the icebox was gutted and organized, the counters were scrubbed, charcoaled oats were chipped from the stove, and the coffee pot was scoured until not a trace of burnt, thrice-brewed grounds remained.

Flour, sugar, and salt was salvaged from an even dustier cupboard. The butter dish was rescued from its position perilously close to the sink. Of course Bill didn't have any yeast or rye – or anything that would make bread decent – but if there was one thing Jacob's grandmother had taught him, it was that a good baker could always make do. He prepared the oven and began mashing ingredients together.

There was a cast-iron loaf pan in the lower right-hand cupboard, salvaged only because Bill was an only child and had been too busy to give away all of his great-grandmother's heirlooms. Jacob chewed his lip at the thought of tough, flat bread (in four years he hadn't baked anything so shapeless), then shrugged and tested the oven heat, accepting that food was food and anything was better than army chow.

By the time the kitchen was clean and the bread was in the oven, Jacob figured two hours must've passed. He stood by the window, smiling as the sun in his world tugged a cloud over its head, then reminded himself that there were things besides bedridden wizards that needed to be fed.

Bill's coffeepot was a wondrous thing, once properly maintained, and Jacob savored his first taste of hot liquid in days. Balancing two mugs – one broth and one joe – with a newspaper tucked under his arm, he ambled down the steps and peeked around the stairwell. Green eyes blinked open, and Jacob nodded hello.

"It's morning in New York," he said, raising his arm so that the newspaper plopped onto Claude's workbench. "Figured you'd want some breakfast."

"Not 'zactly." Claude sighed. He curled into himself, looking more ashen if possible. A stool in the corner clatter and he instantly glared at the empty space. "No, Dougal, I know what…."

In a patter of padded feet, the silver monkey materialized. It held out its paw resolutely and Jacob readily surrendered the broth. Claude groaned as the Damascus hopped up beside him and pushed his head to and fro.

"Git off you sodding…."

"Glad you're feeling better," Jacob said between gulps of coffee. It was amazing what a few hours of sleep could do for the mind. "Did… uh… Did the monkey give you something? The Damascus?"

Claude paused with his hand outstretched, eyebrows twitching in confusion. Dougal gradually peeled his barring fingers away from the mug and shuffled closer.

"Dougal?" Claude finally guessed. It sounded more like "Thougal", probably because there was still a significant split in both front teeth, but he was finally forming real words. Jacob nodded, encouraged. Finally Claude blinked, clarity brightening his eyes. "Th-emiguith. Tttdd-emiguisthe."

He scowled, and Jacob hesitantly offered, "….Demiguy?"

"Guy-th." Claude nodded and thrust the mug away from his face again.

"Demi…guise," Jacob determined. He slugged another mouthful of coffee.

Claude inspected his cracked teeth with his tongue and batted Dougal over the head. He looked at the cocoon hanging above him, hauled himself to one elbow, and before Jacob could properly choke Claude launched to his knees, only to flop to the floor into a pathetic, half-akimbo sprawl.

The monkey offered the mug again.

"Sh'dup, Dougal," Claude mumbled.

"Gotta hand it to you," Jacob said, tugging the Brit back into his nest, "I don't think Bill's ever had a worse patient."

Claude wrinkled his nose. He peered at Jacob, hazel eyes pertinent despite the bruising that had deepened into a painful-looking shroud of indigo. Apparently magic couldn't heal everything.

"You're a Mbuggle," Claude stated.

"Pardon?" Jacob searched the possible translations. Mugger, muddled, mud puddle, bugle.

Claude heaved a sigh, finally accepting a sip from the prodding mug. "Muggle," he repeated, forcing the 'm'. "You don't have bagic."

Bagic.

"Oh! – No, I'm not a wizard," Jacob agreed. "Just an ordinary, nondescript bloke like every other factory worker in New York." He slurped his coffee and added, "I thought maybe I could be something extraordinary – you know, handing out doughnuts and smiling at all the kids when they come in..." he trailed off, realizing he was prattling to a complete stranger.

So maybe this was Claude, and he'd called him his kid brother, but this wasn't a dog he'd found on the street that would give him loyalty, companionship, and a lifetime of fleas in exchange for a few pats on the head. He couldn't adopt one of Bill's patients.

"Uh… yeah," Jacob said feebly, avoiding Claude's unnerving stare. "So that's me. In case we weren't properly introduced – I mean, you were kind of out of it last night." He gritted his teeth, failing conversationally again, and scratched the back of his neck. "Uh… Jacob. Jacob Kowalski."

The Brit drew his tongue very precisely behind his teeth. "N-ew-dttt," he enunciated.

"Nude – oh, Newt!" Jacob glanced at the Demiguise, who was regarding him with wisdom and definite mockery. "Newt? Newt Sal – Scar – Scalamander," he remembered, snapping his fingers. "Newt Scalamander."

Claude groaned into the pillow.

No. Not Claude. Newt. The revelation of the Brit's name left Jacob feeling strangely hollow. For a moment he compared it to Mildred walking out of the apartment. It was foolishness, of course. He'd taken things too far, given himself the security of having something like family again, while all the time Claude had belonged to someone far away, across the ocean, part of a magical realm that Jacob would never understand. He'd never had any right to call the Brit "kin."

Too late to warn himself about getting attached. Soldiering past the disappointment, Jacob forced a queasy smile. "I … uh… I didn't know your name before," he muddled, salvaging one last piece of a week devoted to the care and protection of a sick kid. "I called you Claude, actually." He chuckled, trying to pass it off as a joke.

Chewing the split on the corner of his mouth, Newt looked into the corner as though pondering. "You didn't have a name," he finally slurred. "S'only natural. But I don' need a nickname."

"Heh, figured as much," Jacob agreed. He clenched the coffee mug, feeling like he'd been slugged in the stomach. Honestly, he'd kinda liked Claude better. Newt didn't need an older brother. Apparently he could take care of himself very well.

Jacob reminisced the day he had walked away from the bakery and all his dreams. Funny how being the Good Samaritan had given him a jinx instead of a blessing.

"Well, I guess the animals should be fed," Jacob said, shuffling to his feet and stretching exaggeratedly.

"Not 'till 'morrow," Newt mumbled.

"Right… well… bread should be done, at least."

"Thank you."

The quiet words froze Jacob at the stairwell.

"Uh…." A thousand thoughts flooded him. Mopping up after the kid. Keeping him alive. Digging him out of that horrible crowd. Haranguing Bill into tending him. Staying up hours on end. Keeping the vexing mole outta Bill's stuff. Trying to be a good caretaker.

"The wizard," Newt said. He coughed into his wrist cast and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

"Oh – yeah – that," Jacob said, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "No big deal. Couldn't let him finish what Mary Lou started." He turned, curiosity trumping the need to check the oven. "Who was that guy, anyways?"

Brown clouded green as Newt looked away. "Dangerous wizard," he lisped. "Someone… I didn't know until… but it was him. Somehow he found...."

"Found?" Jacob pressed. "Found what? Who's he?"

Newt's voice was low and – Jacob was uneasy to think it – scared. "Grind'wald."

Grindehwaud, Jacob translated. Unusual name. Whoever the wizard was, he was bad enough to give Claude – Newt – as much of a scare as Mary Lou Barebone, and Jacob had a feeling this guy was much worse.

Hard to imagine anyone worse than her.

"Thank you," Newt repeated softly, "For stopping him."

"Sure," Jacob murmured. He remembered the oppressive sense that he should leave the room; leave Claude to this stranger's dealings; tinker in the kitchen until all was said and done. Until what was done?

"What did he want?" Jacob wondered, thinking about the blue tendril and how close the room felt, like any minute everything could be lost.

Instantly Newt's face shuttered. "Nothing important," he mumbled. "Better he didn't find it."

"Find what?" Jacob pressed.

Green scalded him, desperate and anxious. Holding up his hands, Jacob backed away.

"Okay, fine. I'm just a Muggle, not sure I'd trust me either." He set one foot on the step, missing Newt's cringe, and advised, "Better let the monkey have its way. Probably won't shut up until you finish that broth, and… well, Bill said you should be eating more, anyways. He's right. Gotta get your strength back so…."

He broke off and tramped up the stairs before he could wallow any further. What was he trying to say, anyways? Get your strength back so you can leave and take all your beasts with you? So you can fight back if that wizard finds us again? So you can stop hanging around on other people's charity?

Gotta get your strength back so you can go home, Jacob had meant. As painful as it was, as sickened as he already felt, it was the truth.

Claude was only the name of his neighbor's mangy beagle, and Jacob Kowalski didn't have a family. Newt Scamander didn't belong in his world.

By the time Jacob returned to the kitchen the bread was charred.

"So what's a Demiguise eat?" Jacob wondered to himself as he skittered down the steps, eager to get the job done and then maybe go back upstairs and lose himself in the kitchen.

The Brit sheepishly opened his eyes, as though caught in the act of not sleeping. Jacob hoped the increased awareness meant he was healing, and not going insomniac. Not that he'd had any hand in the healing process. Magic was the source of all miracles, apparently.

"Book," Newt murmured, eyelids half-drooping again. "Table."

Faltering, Jacob scanned the work bench and leaned over, brushing a few scraps of paper aside. No book, unless it was invisible. "Here?" he confirmed.

Newt screwed his eyes shut and then grumbled under his breath. "Coat," he amended. "Pocket."

Definitely still healing. Monosyllables were the current limit, and they didn't provide much direction. Scooping up the coat from where he'd flung it aside, Jacob brushed at the dirt and searched both pockets. Lint, crumbs, a few dried plants, an empty phial, miniscule triangles of silver shell (did he hatch snakes in his pockets?), pebbles like those of New York's streets which were kicked around by careless children (or in worse implication, unsympathetic citizens), a handkerchief with a scorched corner, a chunk that looked suspiciously like meat that had putrefied and dried out from neglect, and finally a leather bound notebook. Newt hummed in confirmation at the last object.

"What's this?" Jacob asked.

"Doug'l," Newt said around a yawn. "B'wtr'ckle, dm'guise, 'rumpet….."

His voice faded, and his consciousness with it. Flipping the pages of the book, Jacob squinted at the tiny, precise print.

"Fantast…ical beasts and where to… find them." Shaking his head blearily, he rubbed his eyes. "I can barely read it."

He glanced at the stairwell, debating. He had plenty of daylight, New York time. He could do something useful. Bill would probably appreciate eating something that didn't come out of a can, and frankly, Jacob was tired of coffee and whatever stale foodstuff was immediately available.

"Baking," Jacob said decisively. He could read whatever this mumbo-jumbo was while something was crisping in the oven. And this time, there would be no distractions.

Long after his resolution, after six unleavened loaves were cooling upstairs, after he'd made use of Bill's washroom and mirror and finally shaved, after he'd made a passable stew from the doctor's wilted vegetables, Jacob lounged back in the chair by Claude… by Newt's bed and held the journal close to the light. He mouthed the words, peering at tiny letters and scribbled pictures, and marveled that one man had paid such attention to the animals of his world.

"Bowtruckle…. Basilisk…. Billiwig?"

Somewhere in the "Mooncalves" section the book slid out of his hands and was caught up by the Demiguise. Reverently Dougal slid the book onto the workbench and dimmed the lights, before hopping down and surveying the sleeping humans. It wadded Newt's coat into a lumpy circle and snuggled down, yellow eyes unblinking.

It kept watch through the night hours of the suitcase and into New York's evening, as a familiar stranger came and went.

When Jacob woke much later, oddly warm and suffering from a wrenched neck, he opened his eyes to find a wool spread covering his lap and a canteen of lukewarm coffee sitting on the workbench with a note from an old friend.

Bill's rapid, long-handed script was looped across a page torn from the back of Newt's book. "Off to see the kids. You're both hopeless cases and I feel sorry for your future wives."

He had left behind a crumb-littered plate, a bottle marked 'for coughing fits', and a shiny silver sugar bowl filled with bread sopped in milk.

Under Newt's chin he had tucked a checkered red and blue quilt.