Newt Scamander always seemed to be in many layers when faced with polite company. The heat didn’t seem to matter nor did odd blanching about isn’t he uncomfortable? He supposed well-placed cooling charms helped with that particular difficulty. Far more than shedding his top coat and unveiling some skin might do. While he was far from bothered with the scars– marks varying from bite marks, deep claw marks, burns from dragons, and some odd ones he couldn’t place anymore– it seemed that others found the sight off-putting. And given his lack of inclination to be the center of attention, to begin with, it was simply easier for no one to know in the first place. So on most occasions, the few nicks across his nose and the bite marks on his hands are all that anyone ever sees.
It was clearer to anyone who knew him in his most comfortable state that a lack of clothes was preferred. Finally finding them stuffy and impeding in his work he was always quick to get rid of the top half of his clothing when inside of his own space– inside of the case. Here, amongst the creatures he cared for, he was more at home than any other place. His mother had often joked that he was more feral animal than boy and it was a joke he held close to his heart yet. You’ll never like trying to fit in with people, will you? She’d mentioned that once in laughs. And he’s reminded often of getting detention for a month simply for saying there no were dangerous creatures, only blinkered people.
That was another reason his scars didn’t bother them when they did other people, no matter how nasty. He didn’t hold it against anything that had given him. More likely he’d fondly talk about how they were just playing or in other times angrily hum about the position he’d found that particular creature in (usually by humans). Where others often found scars as hideous reminders he found them as wonderful stories– stories of his travels, stories that he existed far beyond his mother’s backyard. Beyond the school doors and the horrid ministry office that awaited him no matter where he was.
It’s why he thinks nothing of it when he invites John Murphy into the case once more while he was doing his feeding rounds. After many days of knowing each other– after a late night tumble– he finds himself far more comfortable with the slightly younger man than he’d have imagined. It’s why he hadn’t even thought anything about “polite” company when he’d shuffled about the small shed looking for the medicine he needed to give a recovering graphorn that afternoon. His top coat and waistcoat discarded on the cart and his button-down unbuttoned. A man who always seemed out of place topside, in the small world of Arkadia, more at home and comfortable here than anywhere else.
He pays little attention to John while he explored– other than keeping an eye out for him not getting too close to the more dangerous of creatures– and as he gets covered more in muck and sweat the last few layers seem to vanish. The buttondown shrugged off somewhere near the mooncalves. His pants, though on, were pushed past his knees by the time he refound John outside the shed– Near Frank’s habitat. He turned a small smile to him– an expression that so far had been reserved in Arkadia for him, in moments where they were alone. But he does not reach him yet, instead moving to feed Frank last.
Only with all the creatures fed does he scome to look for the other man who seemed to have moved into the shed and who’s eyes seemed to have found one of the books on his desk. “Ah,” he started moving to the bed to pluck off his shoes in order to get the mud out of them, washcloth in his other hand to get rid of the remaining mud that caked him. “That’s my book. We still print them where I’m from,” he said in mild jest, “it truly is why I’m here.” He knew John didn’t necessarily find him a threat– Not in the way his companions seemed to, not in the way he’d faced. But he knew most doubted his reasons for being there–yet, then, John was the only one given the privilege of seeing his innermost world.
Newt ducks his head after speaking, plucking off the other shoe when he feels John move in the small space between desk and bed. It’s the feeling of fingers on his shoulder blade that makes him stop, skin tingling under his touch. A hum escapes his breath as he considers the expanse of skin underneath the other’s fingers. An old one. “Not my finest of moments, that one, I suppose,” he mentioned quietly.
Puckered skin from burning made it sometimes difficult to move his shoulder– Sometimes. “There was a war, before your people came down. I didn’t much want part of it, but they decided to use dragons in a human mess. The only thing I could do was take care of them,” He mentioned, bitter amusement in his voice, “of course, the dragons didn’t trust anyone but me. Someone got to close thinking they could tame him them and almost paid the price.”
Which meant that he, fool that he was, decided to step in the way of it. He shakes his head then, green eyes lifting to eye the other– mirth highlighting his eyes. “Given he made the call to end that particular program and slaughter them,” he added, “perhaps, I should have let the dragon do as it wished.” But then that would have caused more trouble– More people thinking that dragons were dangerous and unruly. Creatures to be feared and killed on sight— far from everything Newt stood for.
He flashed the man another uncertain grin, fingers going for the washcloth he’d set aside to clean off the mud from walking into the more watery areas of the case. Not sure of anything further to say at that particular moment– The war, the dragons, were something he carried with him since he was even younger than John was now. Half of the reason he found humans as dangerous as he did was born from that time.