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Newt has discovered that he hates shopping for babies.

It's the looks that get him, the looks and the pointing from expectant mothers and their friends who think he can't hear or see them, who are all smiling and whispering conspiratorially about how sweet it is that he's shopping for his little girl, and Newt kind of just wants to rip all his hair out so he can throw it at these women because he so wouldn't be here if he didn't have to be.

He blames Texas Ranger. Yeah, he totally blames Texas Ranger because if Sawyer hadn't had his kid dropped on his doorstep, Newt wouldn't have to be shopping for her stupidly cute little self, thus avoiding the exact kind of attention he doesn't want. Actually, if he's being honest, he maybe doesn't mind it as much as he'll definitely say he does to anyone who asks. He's got a shopping cart full of clothes for Clementine, like this snowsuit with the little ears on the hood and that super badass Batman costume that she'll definitely be thanking her Uncle Newt for one day.

He's never wanted kids, still doesn't want kids, is perfectly happy with his and Kate's decision not to have kids, but it turns out that dealing with his friends' kids isn't so bad. He thinks that's mostly because he can hand them back at the end of the day but whatever, it's fine, Newt thinks that's totally fair. In the end, he leaves the mall with nine new outfits for Clementine, three pairs of shoes, a super soft plush dinosaur that he's thinking of just keeping for himself, and a sweet leather jacket that's warm enough for the winter for Sawyer. It doesn't take that long to haul all his bounty back to Dimera, heading straight for the second floor and knocking on the door.

It's Christmastime, Newt's second in Darrow, and he's glad to share in it when he remembers that for a long, long time, the holidays had stopped being on people's radar. It's hard to think about gift giving when any day could bring more death and destruction to the world, he supposes, but he's here now. He's here, he's married, he's happy, and he's ready to spread a little bit of Christmas fucking cheer.
sciencesaggressively: (ruining mah life)
Newt has made a grievous error in thinking that hauling a covered bucket full of ammonia and housing a kaiju skin louse around town wouldn't be that hard. It is that hard, goddamn it, and he has so many regrets, but Seymour had desperately needed to get out of the lab, Newt could tell. Or maybe Newt's the one who needed to get out of the lab because he's working late tonight since a couple of his colleagues had so very conveniently called in sick the day after Christmas, leaving him to pick up the slack. Dick move, total dick move.

By the time nine o'clock had rolled around, Newt had been pretty sure he was going cross-eyed because he'd forgotten to take a lunch today, and Allison continues to attempt to make coffee scarce for him because she's just rude like that, apparently. So he'd decided to bring Seymour out for a little outing, just to see what would happen if he changes the little guy's environment. He hasn't heard a peep out of him yet, which is better than Seymour trying to skitter his way out of this bucket, and Newt settles down on a bench so he can peer in to see how his skin louse is doing.

"You're good, right, buddy?" he asks, keeping his voice low because it's cold enough that people aren't really taking casual strolls out here in the park, but he'd still spotted people here and there--and he's starting to think Kate's maybe right about keeping Seymour more on the down low. It's not even that he's worried he's not supposed to have him, it's more that Newt's paranoid someone might actually try to take him, and he's grown weirdly attached. It's because it's the only thing he really has to remind him of where he's from, he supposes, other than Chuck, but Newt can't keep Chuck nearby in a bucket of ammonia all the time. Or ever, really.

"I really have to start teaching you some tricks or something, Seymour. Allison and Kate think you're gross and everyone else thinks you're pretty much useless, but we can totally prove them wrong." The parasite's six black eyes stare blankly back at him, and Newt sighs. "Just hanging out, talking to my skin louse. The fuck is even wrong with me right now?"


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Dr. Newton Geiszler

March 2017

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