sciencesaggressively: (Default)
In the end, there'd really only ever been the one right way to do it.

He realizes the text he'd sent her had been maybe a little vague, maybe even a little more of a cause for concern. We need to talk had seemed fine at the time but then he'd remembered that the phrase carries a whole bunch of negative connotations with it that really aren't fair for people who are in relationships because sometimes, the need to talk really is there but it totally comes off as a bad thing.

A follow-up text had let Kate know that she should join him on the roof, and Newt has gone to great lenghts to make sure they won't have any unwelcome visitors by creating a false memo for every resident of Dimera--that's a lot of fucking residents, just for the record--that the door would remain locked for the evening. Kind of rude considering it's the Fourth of July? Maybe. He doesn't care all too much. His primary concern is that inviting Kate up to the roof isn't in itself isn't a dead giveaway because the roof has totally been their happy place since they'd started dating.

The flamingos are still up here, the telescope aimed in the direction of their stars, the table and chairs, the boombox--all of it's here. Nobody had thought or cared to move it, and it almost feels like that alone makes the roof theirs. He's been pacing back and forth for a solid half hour, pausing every so often to poke his head out over the ledge to see if he can spot her on the ground because she should be on her way back any minute but the fireworks are going to start soon and Christ, he's not nervous about what this whole thing is going to lead to but there's still that tight pulsing in his chest, there's the overwhelming sense of this could go terribly wrong.

What he clings to is the knowledge that there's not a single part of him that doubts how much he wants this. He's never felt about anyone the way he feels about Kate, has never felt this much love for a single person, and sometimes he wakes up wondering if Darrow hadn't just been one very long, very detailed dream. He couldn't have predicted this or even imagined it because the life he'd had before this wouldn't have allowed it. But right now, standing up on this roof waiting for Kate to arrive with his hand in his pocket, clutching at the ring, he knows that this is where he's supposed to be. This is what he's supposed to do.

Tonight, he's proposing. Tonight, he's going to be the happiest man in Darrow.
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sciencesaggressively: (omf your innocent little face)
He hasn't been sleeping well since he'd woken from his coma, and he still thinks that's kind of funny. Now that he's back to what he supposes he can call normal, as far as his brain is concerned, he feels a little more confident that he'll be okay; it's just that with the recovery in his head had come the memories of that night and that's a little trickier to deal with. He's managed to fake his way through the motions--he's become a master of slowing his breathing and pretending to be asleep until he can sense Kate drift off next to him because otherwise, he knows she'd just worry. He doesn't want her to worry. He just wants to be okay. It wasn't going to happen right away, he knows that, but nobody's been able to give him a solid time frame for when he's going to stop hurting or when he's going to stop thinking that every noise he hears from another room is that junkie back to finish the job, even though he knows the chances of that are incredibly slim, especially considering that Derek and Helen had taken care of the guy themselves.

"It's just going to take some time" is the generic answer he gets, from doctors and friends alike, and Newt's starting to question whether any of them actually know what they're talking about. They're not going through what he is, after all, right? How could they possibly know, how could they possibly understand what it's like? He's never lived with this kind of fear, never, he's never felt like there's anything holding him back and now he's finding that sometimes he's afraid of his own shadow. He's been doing well enough hiding it, he thinks. He still smiles and laughs at jokes and tells his own and people seem pretty convinced that he's moving on just fine. And it's not like he doesn't think he'll jump over this hurdle, he knows he will because he has to, there's no other option; he just doesn't know how long it's going to take and that uncertainty only contributes to his frustration.

He's in the bedroom now, even though it's just barely seven and he'd left Kate in the other room under the guise of needing a nap. He had tried, he's been trying for the last half hour, but it's just not happening. So he sits back up with a heavy sigh and blindly reaches for his crutches. It's taking less and less effort to getting them in the right place, which he's told is good, very good, it means he's healing the way he's supposed to and he should be happy. Happy. What makes him happy now is knowing that his friends are still there, that Kate is still there, and he hates the idea of being a burden to them even though he's pretty sure they'd all smack him in the head for even thinking that. He just can't seem to help it sometimes. Even so, he'd rather be next to her than be alone in here and he hasn't even had a proper conversation about her day since she'd gotten home from work. It takes a little bit of a struggle, but he ventures back out to the living room where she's got her feet propped up on the coffee table.

"Hey," he greets with a small smile, "anything exciting going on?"
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sciencesaggressively: (Default)
It's been a month. Well, give or take, but still at least a month since he and Kate had gone on their first date. It seems like so much longer, after everything that's happened--the casket, the car accident, meeting the surrogate parent, the nightmare--and yet, he's still got butterflies in his stomach as he waits for her on the roof, holding a bottle of champagne. It had taken him most of the day to prepare this date, and she's been working so he wants so badly for this to be relaxing and enjoyable and all those nice words that should be associated with a date.

He'd been very specific. Meet him at his place, no need to knock--not that either of them do anyway. Just beyond the door, he'd placed that little pink flamingo she'd told him about, the one that her friend had put in the casket with her, with a note reading Change of plans. Take the elevator. Inside the elevator, another note: To the roof. The door to the roof has a bouquet of daisies propped on it along with another note: No broken limbs this time. P.S. Don't laugh.

And he's here, on the other side, surrounded by more arrangements of every kind of flower he could get from the shop--carnations, lilies, roses, tulips. He'd had help, of course, especially with dragging the round glasstop table and wrought iron chairs he'd found at the pawn shop up here. Plus another lawn flamingo that he'd strategically placed next to what is now being designated as Kate's chair. He figures he can leave it all, let whoever happens to come up here take advantage of it, but for now there's a lit candelabra on the table along with an ice bucket, two champagne flutes, and two plates of roasted lemongrass chicken that are still steaming under their lids. A portable stereo is playing some soft rock radio, and he's going to be pretty damn broke until he secures a job but he wants this to be special. He wants it to be something she won't forget.
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sciencesaggressively: (giving me a headache bro)
He'd drifted off easily enough, a smile on his face because his arm had been draped over Kate's waist, their fingers entwined and his forehead resting against her shoulder. He doesn't know how deep into sleep he is when it starts, the images tinted in blue--images and memories and emotions. He can see the Precursors, sees their wide eyes as Gipsy Danger destroys them all and closes the breach, a victory for the PPDC but nothing but pain and tragedy for the aliens; he can feel it when Striker Eureka kills Scunner; when Gipsy blasts Leatherback into oblivion. It's all pain, experience his mind believes he's connected to because of the drifts, and the part of his mind that is still just Newt is desperate to get the hell out of this, for an escape, for the pain to ease and--

He wakes up, chest heaving, and he paws at the nightstand beside him until he manages to find his glasses. He blinks a few times, trying to adjust back to reality, and realizes his hands are gripping the bedsheets so tightly that they're trembling. Or maybe it's his whole body that's trembling, that's quickly becoming a larger possibility. His one relief right now is that Kate only shifts a little in her sleep, and he holds his breath until she stops moving and her breathing steadies again; it's the last thing he wants to do, wake her up because of this shit, but then he feels something wet dripping down his nose and he curses to himself as he reaches up to wipe what he knows is blood away.

"Goddammit," he mutters to himself, trying his hardest to slide out of bed without disturbing her. He makes it to the bathroom quietly enough even without his cane to help and winces when he turns on the light, his eyes adjusting to the brightness. When he catches sight of his bloody mess of a face, he grimaces, shaking his head. He grabs at some toilet paper and perches on the edge of the bathtub, stuffing his nose with a distressed sigh. He has no clue what the hell had spurred the nightmare, he hasn't had one since the first time nearly a month ago. He'd honestly thought this wasn't going to be an issue but even if it is, he needs to be able to figure out if this is going to be a random occurrence or if he'll be able to map this out. Nobody needs to know about this, right? It's nothing.
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sciencesaggressively: (i've said too much)
Newt is pretty sure there's no truer happiness than being released from the hospital. It's been a few days now, about a week since the accident, and now he's in bed just staring up at the ceiling, bored out of his mind. Everyone keeps telling him to stay off his feet--something about it not being good to run around with a broken leg and lingering effects of a concussion--which, hi, five doctorates in biology here, he knows his way around the human body. He doesn't know why people feel the need to constantly remind him that he's basically an invalid right now, he hates it with a passion that he can't do anything.

He's had visitors, of course; Kate and Chuck have been in and out to check on him, help him where he needs it, and he appreciates all of it, he really does, isn't sure what'd he do without them. But he's used to getting shit done on his own, so having to rely on others to do simple tasks like pouring a damn bowl of cream is kind of infuriating.

So that's why he decides it's a good idea to roll out of bed, grab his crutches, and awkwardly make his way to the kitchen to find something to eat. Except there's a damn overhead lightbulb out, and he feels the inexplicable need to change it right now. He drags a chair over--harder than he'd have thought it to be, if he's honest--and carefully hoists himself up on it, using his crutch to balance himself. He bites his lip in concentration and he's maybe starting to get a little dizzy because okay, maybe this isn't his best idea and hopes nobody walks through the front door.
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sciencesaggressively: (Default)
It had started out innocently enough, just a casual conversation with Kate on the topic of the envelope mystery. It's when she'd brought up the idea of getting ahold of the security footage that they'd both stared at each other, clearly coming to the silent agreement that they need to get ahold of the security footage. It doesn't take long for both of them to get changed--all black, of course, because that's what the movies always say is best--and rendezvous at the train station at 1800 hours during a convenient switching of the shifts at the information booth.

Newt tries to look cool, leaning against the wall nearest the empty booth as a few people pass him by--and he finds it kind of weird that they seem to be noticing him more than usual, or maybe he's just being paranoid. The door to the security room is just around the corner and the station is emptying out, so it's pretty much now or never. Well, never until the next shift change, whatever. He peers around the corner, failing to notice Kate coming up behind him, so when she taps him on the shoulder he can't stop the yelp that escapes from his throat, and he really wishes he'd bought that ski mask he'd seen at the store because his cheeks are awfully red right now.

"I thought you were the fuzz," he says even as his eyes crinkle from a wide smile and he leans over for a kiss. "I think we're in good shape to do this, you ready?"
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