He lowers him onto the edge of the mattress. Careful. Kneels on the floor at his feet.
"Let me see," he says.
Newt lets him see.
Malik strips off Newt's shirt without hesitation, without asking, and Newt makes a small embarrassed yelp that Malik barely registers, because his eye has gone to the side of Newt's ribs and he is cataloging the damage. The purpling has started already—a shadow under the thin skin, blooming in the shape of the toe of a boot, spreading down toward his hip. There is another mark higher up, a raw red scrape across his collarbone where someone has hit him and the fabric has caught. The split in his lip is still beading slow dark blood.
Malik presses his palm, gently, to the bruise on Newt's ribs.
Newt hisses. A small indrawn breath.
"I'm sorry," Malik says. His voice is flat.
"It's okay, it's just—"
"Nothing's broken."
"I don't think so."
"Breathe in."
Newt breathes in. Malik watches the rise of his ribcage, watches for the catch, for the quick shallow pull that would mean something more serious. It does not come. Newt's breath is ragged but it is whole. Malik's shoulders drop a fraction. He does not allow himself to exhale.
He is thinking about the men.
He had felt Newt's hand on his wrist when he came through the portal and he had known, he had known in his bones. He knows their faces. He knows where they live. He knows wherethey drink. He has spent enough evenings in Haven's bars to know exactly which corners of which establishments they frequent, and he is going to visit each of those corners, and he is going to—
Newt touches his face.
It is very light. Two fingers against his jaw. Newt has leaned forward a little, and his fingers are trembling against Malik's skin, and Malik's eyes come up.
"Malik," Newt says. His voice is small. His lip is bleeding. "You're shaking."
"I know."
"I don't like it when you look like this."
Malik takes Newt's hand, gently, and lowers it from his face. He kisses the knuckles—distracted, barely thinking about it—and presses it back down against Newt's thigh. He stands. He does not want to stand. He wants to kneel here at Newt's feet for another several minutes and count his bruises, one by one, but he cannot, because the sitting still is going to make him tear the room apart and Newt is watching him with his heart in his face.
"I'll be back," Malik says.
Newt goes very still.
"You don't—you don't have to, you're not—please don't. Please."
"They hurt you."
"I know, I know they did, but I'm—I'm here. I'm okay. I did something I shouldn't have done, I went out there alone, I was stupid—"
"Newt."
"—and they were scared, I think, I think they were scared, because of the rifts, because people have been saying I had something to do with the rifts, and they were scared and I was there and—"
"Stop making excuses for them!"
Malik did not mean to raise his voice. It comes out too hard, and Newt flinches and Malik closes his own eyes and breathes in, very slowly, and then out.
"I'm sorry," he says. "I'm sorry, love. I shouldn't have—"
