Hold your breath when the blackbird flies [for Newt]

For a long time, Kavinsky sat in the garage. The door of it was shut behind him, and he'd turned the Evo off, but there's a terrified, sick part of him that whispered to him. He ignored it. But he sat there, staring at the steering wheel, and the wall beyond. It was late, he thought. Or dark at least.

What the fuck had he just done?

Nothing he was proud of. This wasn't like figuring things out with Jack and Peter, the little caveats that went into those functioning. This wasn't even really like what he'd done with Connor. This was just--it was the nastier parts of what he'd been back in Henrietta. Distraction and use and messing the whole thing up. But there was no hiding it, not like in the halls at Aglionby. There wasn't even anything to hide, physically at least.

Kavinsky sat behind the wheel of the car and wept. How stupid, to be upset over something so small. It wasn't, though. The act itself had been, but not the implications. Not what it could do to all this delicate balance. He felt like a heel. He felt worse than that.