Chapter Text
1938
Bedford may still be New England, and even technically still Boston (a whole whopping thirty minutes away), but it's a drag compared to what Newt’s used to, and it’s why he’s decided to hate it and toil away each hour spent here in misery. He recognizes he’s being unfair—petty, even—and it’s almost entirely a decision colored by spite, but frankly, he’s of the opinion he’s allowed. Considering the capital-c Circumstances.
Newt's been up here for four months, lecturing for over three, and he got antsy his second week in. He thinks it’s the closeness that’s getting to him. The proximity to where he really wants to be. He wishes they would’ve sent him to New York or something, maybe somewhere halfway across the country. Out of the country. He would’ve embraced the deal with open arms, and not merely out of necessity. Marshall College needed him though, apparently, to boost their paleontology department that’s almost as extinct as the subject matter—the Dean (nice guy, friend of MIT’s own) asked for him, specifically, after his work in Tanzania, and Newt's not exactly, well, popular at MIT right now, not after certain indiscretions on his part, and they were more than happy to get rid of him without causing a scandal. Newt was, after all, their golden boy. Still counts for something.
He doesn't think his co-workers like him here too much; he gets disapproving looks for his wild hair, his scuffed leather jacket, the dirt perpetually caked onto his combat boots, his round-cheeked baby face that makes him seem like more of a delinquent twenty-something than the celebrated academic he is. Not to mention the tattoos. (He overheard some literature professor call him disgraceful to a colleague his first week in. At least his students kind of like him.)
Work is a bit of a drag, too. There’s barely anyone to talk to. Newt constitutes the entire paleontology department, save for a single adjunct who comes in on Tuesday evenings to talk about plants for an hour, but they've crammed the archaeology department in alongside him on the same floor. Since the two are so similar, apparently. Maybe there's some truth to it—digging up old shit in the dirt, no matter if it's bones or pottery, follows the same general set of guidelines of “don’t break it”.
Anyway, Newt is being kind when he calls the archaeology department a department. It's just one man, just like him, even if the guy’s classes are shockingly much more well attended than Newt's and kids flock to his office hours in droves. Newt's lucky if he gets even half of his enrolled students to show up to a lecture, regardless of how much they kind of like him; the archaeologist usually has to turn people away.
Newt thinks he knows why. It’s not because of the subject.
The archaeologist is called Jones, and he's handsome in a way that makes Newt's tongue feel like it's been knotted up and like his legs have turned to jelly. He's scruffy (a look that Newt can never seem to pull off successfully), wears tweed and little round glasses, and has got a nice air of charm about him. And a bit of an edge, too, or so rumor has it. Newt's heard his students whisper about the adventures Dr. Jones gets up too, the excavations across the globe, the sword-fighting, the Nazi-punching, but it's hard to reconcile the Dr. Jones worthy of his own radio serial with the Dr. Jones whose bow tie is always a little crooked and whose glasses are always a bit smudged. Newt can dream, though. (And he likes to. Extensively. Especially when they involve Jones rescuing him from pirates, and Newt being so grateful, and then—)
It's two months before Newt actually talks to Dr. Jones, beyond a perfunctory morning hello or evening see you tomorrow or little nods when they pass each other in the hall. He's been content to pine from afar in the meantime. But—two months, an unmarried guy with no lady friends, and especially when it’s a guy with Jones’s looks—Newt's gotta wonder. Hope, maybe. He's had enough time to get over his dalliance with the handsome classics professor at MIT that cost him his cushy job, and much more time to get over—well. Not important now. He's lonely, so sue him.
It's a Friday night, and it's just the two of them in this wing of the university; Newt's just finishing picking over a handful of academic journals he had force himself to catch up on, and the steady stream of students coming and going from Dr. Jones's office has finally died out until, finally, the last straggler is calling goodbye. Newt casts a glance out the window. Dusk. Dinnertime, probably. He can’t remember if he ate today. He brushes a bit of dirt off his shoulder that he’s not quite clear on the origins of, tries in vain to clean his glasses on the rolled cuff of his shirt, and waltzes across the hall to Dr. Jones's office. He knocks once. Dr. Jones doesn't look up from an old-looking journal he's pouring over—decidedly not academic in origin, like Newt’s had been.
"Office hours are over," he says, flipping over a page, "can’t it wait ‘til Monday?"
"It can't, actually," Newt says, and enjoys the way Dr. Jones quickly looks up, blinking in surprise.
"Dr. Geiszler?" Newt doesn't miss the way he quickly closes the book and slides it off to the side, falsely casual, until the cover is partially obscured by a bit of newspaper. It's worn and leather. Not that it's any of Newt's business. He forces himself to drag his eyes away. He wants to make a good impression, one that doesn’t involve immediately prying into the guy’s personal affairs and coming off a creep.
"I was wondering if you wanted to get dinner or something?" Dr. Jones looks at him blankly; embarrassed, Newt adds in a rush, "It's just, it's late, and I haven't eaten, and I know you've been busy too. I thought I’d ask."
"I'd like to," Dr. Jones says, "but—" He casts a glance down at the journal. Newt follows his gaze.
Newt thinks of the stories he’s heard his students whisper among themselves. He hopes this is part of something exciting, too. "Catching up on reading?" He smiles. "No worries, pal."
Dr. Jones debates for a moment longer, and then shoots Newt a smile of his own that has the tips of Newt’s ears growing warm. "It can wait," he says, and slips the journal into the pocket of his tweed. "Not often I get a dinner invitation from someone who shares my habits. Especially not from someone with as impressive a reputation as you, Dr. Geiszler."
Newt's heart skips a beat. "Habits?"
"Digging around in the dirt,” Jones says, smile widening. He stands up and pockets his glasses as well. He looks less the professor type without them and more, well, a man worthy of the legends. Also, of course, really handsome.
"Right," Newt says, hoping Jones can’t see his blush. "Of course."
"Where'd you have in mind for dinner?" Dr. Jones says, buttoning up his blazer. He grabs a fedora off the coat rack to the side of the doorway.
"I—" Truthfully, Newt hadn't planned on getting this far. "I think there's a few pubs nearby? I don't know how good they are—"
Dr. Jones hums. He looks at Newt very, very thoughtfully. "We could just go back to my place."
Dr. Jones makes them martinis, which Newt is delighted by, despite the fact that he’s sincerely been trying to cut back on his life-uprooting inspired drinking as of late. (He'd been expecting whiskey, or something else boring and served in tumblers that he’d have to pretend to be impressed at the year of.) There's not much in the way of food besides the olives in their glasses, but Dr. Jones scrounges up some pretzels from his kitchen with an apology and an explanation that he needs to pick up more groceries. Newt’s fine with it. It’s the company he wanted, anyway—he felt like he was going nuts without anyone over the age of twenty to talk to. And they do talk: they talk about their research (though Newt has a feeling Jones is deliberately avoiding getting into his best bits), their travels, how Newt’s liking it here, the damn weather, even. Major morale boost. Newt’s feeling like his usual chipper, obnoxious, loud-mouthed self already.
"Newt, by the way," he says after they've each had a second martini and everything’s getting a little nice and warm. He's kicked his legs up on the coffee table, loosened his tie, unbuttoned his top two buttons. No harm in making himself comfortable. "I can’t remember if I said. Don't worry about the Doctor shit. It just makes me feel—” He waves his hand, forgetting himself, and his drink slops over the sides of his glass and onto his jeans. “—Old. Oh."
Jones smirks a bit, taking in Newt's disheveled appearance, the stain spreading over his knee. Yeah, Newt's kind of a lightweight. So sue him. He’s small. "Indiana," Jones says. "Or Indy. No one calls me Henry."
"I like the name Henry," Newt says. He sets down his martini glass and takes off his tie entirely, with half a mind to use it to mop up the booze. Jones's eyes go to his throat.
"How lucky for me," he says. He leans in and rests a hand on Newt's thigh.
Habits, Newt thinks.
It's casual. It’s fun. It’s a little fumbling. Jones presses him down against the sofa, rucks up their undershirts to expose their bare chests and abdomens (and boy, does Newt feel inadequate in that regard), mouths hot practiced kisses up Newt's neck, and Newt gasps and clutches at Jones's back, his sandy-blonde hair, his sturdy biceps. His scruff is tickling him. Newt knocks his head against the armrest more than once. “This is swell,” Newt sighs happily, fighting the insane urge to giggle. He’s not sure where his glasses went. “This is really—”
Jones kisses the corner of his mouth; Newt takes the hint and closes it. “You usually this talkative, honey?” Jones says, but he sounds amused, at least, not annoyed. He swallows Newt’s moan with a kiss as he falls apart a moment later.
Jones wanders off in search of a clean towel when they've both caught their breath, and Newt remains sprawled against the cushions, sated but a little sweaty. Newt really did have fun. He likes Jones, and he likes his weird house, too—the piles of dusty papers everywhere, the bookcases stuffed with statuettes and volumes older than Newt, the dozens of photographs of a younger Jones in far-off places tacked to his walls that Newt is dying to ask about—likes both enough to hope that this isn’t a one time thing. He hopes it lasts. He hopes he won’t be so—
Jones has left his tweed coat tossed across the opposite arm of the sofa, and the edge of the journal peeks out from the inner pocket.
"No," Newt tells himself sternly. It's none of his business. "Do not—"
He reaches in and pulls it out. It's not as old as he expected—ten years, tops, just a little well-loved—and it's a nice, sturdy leather. A brief flip through it reveals it's part diary, part—something. Research, maybe. Complicated equations and weird diagrams of things Newt has to turn the journal sideways and upside-down to even attempt to comprehend. That's not what's surprising, though, what’s making Newt’s heart pound a little faster than it should.
What's surprising is that Newt knows the handwriting as intimately as he knows his own.
Jones walks back into the room with the towel slung over his shoulder, shirtless and smiling lazily, but his expression contorts to suspicion in a matter of seconds when he realizes what Newt's holding. "What are you—?"
Newt waves it at him. "Why do you have Hermann Gottlieb's journal?"