#SO YOUNG SO DAMAGED; ( credence barebone interactions )

[eightholyterrors]

credence   &&   tina;   he  won’t  touch  you  like  i  do.

           there was      a silence ringing    through the room. although he     was used to silence    he wasn’t     used to companionship.     --     to affection.     but tina    was different.     --     more loving    than     his   adoptive   mother.    in every conceivable    manner. she didn’t     fear his magic    the way that     his   ma did.     didn’t   beat him for it.     --     but embraced him    instead.    all the    pieces of him.     including the    darkness deeply    rooted within.     she almost seemed to      cherish him    despite the    piece of him   that was        (      at times      )     unstable.     perhaps    she knew by    now that he’d    never let it    hurt her.      that he    did wield some    control over that     sde of himself.      that he   only used it    on bad   people     --      like     his adoptive   mother when he     killed her.     he     remembered what it    felt like to    be ripped apart. to have    his magic     implode in    on him.     to have    so many spells trying    to decimate him    at once.     he never    wanted to feel that    again.     his   lips trembled     as he     pushed down    the memory.            he was    lucky to have    escaped.    he’d been    weakened for    weeks.    unable to    wield his    magical    abilities.    he’d   felt like an    nonchargeable    battery.    if    tina hadn’t    found him   huddled   in the alley,        &&     given him     a home,     he might have    died.    she was    like a   guiding light to him.    something bright     &&    clear.    but   when she   married another.    loved    another.    it only turned his   heart to    jealousy.     he’d     thought   she was his.    --    that   perhaps    she might care    for him.        &&      it wasn’t   until the    first time   newt   went away    for a  long    trip    in europe that    he    found himself    inside of   their   home.    curiously he   remembered    kissing her    that first time.     his mind   screamed at him    for the    atrocious sin of    it,    but she was    all he    had.    --     the only    one he loved.   tonight he    felt the   pull of her.   he could always    sense her   magic.   it tangled with his.    tugged,     &&     pulled on his   heartstrings.    newt was    gone again.    he was    always gone these    days.     nervously   his eyes    darted around.      ❛    tina    ??     ❜      his voice   was soft,    uncertain as he   crossed the   threshold of her    home.

@killinglonelincss

[terriblelifechoices]

How about Graves and Credence with prompt 103? Or 113

Sorry, @tora42  This one kind of got away from me.

From the send me a pairing and a number and I’ll write you a drabble thing.  To the surprise of probably no one, I fail at drabbles.  What is brevity, anyway.  

103. “Does this happen to you a lot? Because ‘not again’ isn’t the response I’d expect from someone I just found unconscious in my garden.”

“Is this really necessary?” Graves asked, trying – and failing, if Tina’s unimpressed expression was anything to go by – not to sound desperate.

“Well,” Newt began, in what Graves felt was a promisingly reasonable tone of voice.  Graves had hired Newt as a favor to Theseus, but he’d always had a soft spot for the younger Scamander. “I suppose –”

“Yes,” said Tina, over anything else Newt might have said.

“Right,” Newt said, changing course with the split second rapidity that made him such a menace in the field.  There were days when Graves deeply regretted hiring Newt.  “It’s absolutely necessary.”

“Of course it is,” Graves muttered.

“Besides, it all works out rather nicely, doesn’t it?” Tina inquired.  “Newt and I need a pet sitter, and you need something that will keep you out of trouble while you’re convalescing –”

“On administrative leave!” Graves interjected, affronted.

Tina had the audacity to roll her eyes at him.  “While you’re convalescing on administrative leave,” she amended.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” said Graves.  “Why is everyone acting like I’ve never been shot before?  I’m fine.”  

Granted, it had been a lot easier to shake this sort of thing off when he’d been Tina’s age, but he was hardly on death’s doorstep.  It had been a simple through and through GSW, with minimal muscle damage.  Graves didn’t even really need the sling that everyone was (somewhat melodramatically, in his opinion) insisting that he wear; so far the fucking thing had hindered more than it had helped.  Graves would never have fallen off of that damned ladder if he hadn’t been wearing it.

Unfortunately, no one else saw the ladder incident quite as reasonably as he did.  Which was why his protege was now lecturing him as if she were his Great Aunt Ethel, and not young enough to be his daughter.

Tina nodded.  “Right,” she said.  “You’re Special Agent Percival fucking Graves: the man, the myth, the legend –” Each ridiculous epithet was accompanied with an equally ridiculous gesture.  Graves had never seen anyone make jazz hands look sarcastic before.  He was a little impressed in spite of himself.

“Is this level of sarcasm really necessary?” Graves asked.

Tina ignored him in favor of adding, “And you’re fine.  You absolutely did not show up to my wedding six hours late with a GSW and faint during the reception!”

“I was not late!” Graves protested.  “I showed up in time to walk you down the aisle, didn’t I?”

“You showed up thirty seconds before it was time to walk me down the aisle,” Tina shot back.  “You were a member of my damned bridal party.  You were supposed to be there at seven, and you went off and got yourself shot instead.”

Graves wanted to argue that point, and couldn’t.  It was all true.

“I’m sorry,” he said, for the thousandth time.  He meant it, every time.  But he couldn’t erase the hurt he’d caused just because he meant it.  Tina knew he meant it, and she’d forgive him when she was ready to.  That was enough.

And, in the meantime, Graves would prove that he meant it by babysitting Tina and Newt’s menagerie of adopted strays.

Tina sighed.  “You were there for the important part,” she conceded.

“And he’s looking after everyone while we’re gone,” Newt added.  He made it sound like this was something Graves had volunteered to do, rather than something Seraphina and Tina had blackmailed him into.  Newt was kind like that.  Newt was always kind.

Graves had always liked that about him; had liked what it meant for Tina, who needed someone kind whether she would admit it or not.  Graves could still remember the girl she’d been when they’d first met – the one who’d worn her reckless crusader’s heart on her sleeve and dared the world to try and break it.  Twenty years old and fresh out of the Academy, Tina had been brilliant and sharp as mirror-glass – blinding when the light caught her just right, but terribly breakable, too.  She’d needed someone kind to shelter her heart, although she never would have admitted it.

At twenty-six, Tina’s sharpness and brilliance were diamond, not glass.  Anyone else would have let their heart go diamond hard to match, but not Tina.  She was kind, too.  Graves was glad that she and Newt had each other.  They could shelter each other’s hearts, and keep the world from breaking them.

Graves held up the terrifyingly thick binder of care instructions Newt had shoved into his good arm.  Someone – Graves strongly suspected Newt, who was prone to doodling during meetings he found too boring to pay attention to, which was pretty much all of them as far as Newt was concerned – had drawn most of Newt’s menagerie as mythological creatures on the front cover and titled it Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them.

“They won’t even know you’re gone,” he promised.

Tina smirked at him.  “I’m going to remind you that you said that when we check in tomorrow.”

“I’m sure you’ll have better things to do on your honeymoon,” Graves said blandly.

Tina’s answering smile had teeth in it this time.  “I’m going to remind you that you said that, too.”

“I’m sure everything will be fine,” said Newt.  “But just in case, maybe don’t leave anything valuable that you absolutely don’t want stolen where Cecil can get to it.  And don’t be offended if Pickett doesn’t want anything to do with you.  He’s gotten rather attached to me and –”

“You wrote all of that down,” Tina reminded him.  “In sixteen point Times New Roman.”

“Sixteen, really?” Graves asked.  He despaired of Newt’s approach to paperwork, he really did.

“I wanted to make it twenty-four, but Newt thought it was a bit insulting,” said Tina.  “I did bold certain items for emphasis, though.”

“Keep giving me attitude, Goldstein.  I outrank you.”

“Not while you’re on administrative leave, you don’t,” Tina said.

“We should head to the airport, Tina,” Newt said, obviously trying to head off another argument.  “We don’t want to miss our flight.”

Graves gave him an unimpressed look, because that particular attempt at a distraction had been extremely unsubtle.  Newt was a professional spy, for God’s sake.  That was just embarrassing.

He was somewhat amused to find that Tina was giving her husband an identical unimpressed look.

Newt shrugged, not particularly bothered by their censure.  “It worked, didn’t it?” he asked with a grin.

“I suppose it did,” Tina allowed.  She let Newt tug her towards their front door, but couldn’t resist a few last minute instructions of her own.  “Please try not to do anything stupid while we’re gone,” she said.  “The number for the hotel is in the binder, and on the fridge next to the phone.  And if you run into trouble, Credence can help you.”

“I’m sure Graves will be fine,” Newt said.  “But if you need help feeding everyone, Credence did volunteer to help.”

“Leave, before I call in a favor and have your flight grounded out of spite,” Graves commanded, in lieu of saying that he’d rather lose a finger to one of Frank’s fits of temper than bother the only human member of Newt and Tina’s menagerie of adopted strays.  Credence Barebone had suffered enough at the hands of someone wearing Graves’ face, and Graves could not bring himself to add to the harm that had already been done.  

Tina and Newt both insisted that Credence bore Graves no ill-will for what Grindelwald had done.  Graves appreciated their well-intentioned sugar-coating of the situation, but he was well aware of the fact that the mere sight of him still spooked the boy.  

Credence had been part of the bridal party, too.  Someone – Tina or Tina’s younger sister Queenie or maybe Credence himself – had managed to keep his interactions with Graves to the bare minimum.  Graves had not actually had all that much to do with the wedding, outside of walking Tina down the aisle.  He’d surreptitiously paid for as much of it as he could get away with, as was his right as Tina’s adopted older brother/surrogate father figure, but that was more or less the extent of his involvement.   Credence had been very much in the thick of things.  He’d been Queenie’s unofficial assistant for all wedding planning related duties.  Graves had seen plenty of Queenie in the weeks leading up to the wedding, but he hadn’t interacted with Credence at all.  It took real effort to avoid someone like that.

Graves had been a professional spy for longer than Credence had been alive, and he was not kind.  Not the way that Tina and Newt were: a conscious choice made so consistently and so often that it became the default.  Graves had closed the door on kindness long ago, trying to protect what was left of his heart.  But even he had enough kindness left in him to recognize that the kindest thing he could do for Credence was to leave the boy alone.

*

“You are not actually a corvid,” Graves told Cecil, attempting to wrest his one of his cufflinks from the guinea pig’s greedy little paws without hurting him.  “I know Newt raised you with the ravens, but you are a guinea pig and your obsession with shiny things makes no sense.”

Newt’s binder – which had actually been written in sixteen point Times New Roman, thank you so much, Tina – had expressly forbidden shaming Cecil for his terrible behavior, but as far as Graves was concerned, the furry little con artist had earned a healthy dose of Irish Catholic guilt.  Cecil had managed to steal one of Graves’ cufflinks while Graves was still wearing it.  Graves had met professional pickpockets who couldn’t manage the same feat, and it pissed him off that Cecil could.

Cecil made a pitiful crying noise, his dark eyes going liquid and pleading.

“No,” Graves said sternly, in the tone of voice that brought junior Agents to heel.

The pleading look intensified.

“No,” Graves said again, determined to hold his ground.

Cecil gave a little heartbroken chirp and relinquished his hold on Graves’ cufflink.  His entire body radiated dejection.

“Oh, for –” Graves bit back a curse.  He had gone toe to toe with Vinda Rosier, who had learned emotional manipulation at her father’s knee and perfected it under Grindelwald’s tutelage.  Rosier hadn’t been able to break him, so Graves was absolutely not falling prey to the machinations of a guinea pig.

Cecil made another heartbroken little chirp, almost as if he were crying.

Could guinea pigs cry?  Nothing in Newt’s ridiculous binder had indicated that they could, but Graves wouldn’t put it past this one.

“Look,” he said, feeling more than a little absurd.  “Cufflinks are a choking hazard.  You can have my tie bar instead if you leave my cufflinks alone.  Does that sound fair?”

Cecil actually seemed to be considering that.

“You’re a fuzzy con artist,” Graves told him.  He set Cecil back in his habitat and passed over his tie bar.  Graves was a man of his word, even when dealing with guinea pigs.  Cecil seemed pleased with this tribute, and scampered off to hide it.

Graves snorted in amusement, glad that none of his subordinates – or worse, Seraphina – could see him now.  He dragged his tie off over his head and hung it on the corner of Cecil’s habitat.  He told himself it was because it wouldn’t hang right without the tie bar, and not so the tiny grifter could use the shiny fabric as a victory flag.

The rest of Newt’s menagerie were fed and petted and – Jesus Christ, Newt, seriously? – sung to in short order.  If footage of Graves singing to the lorikeets surfaced at the next Christmas party, Graves would know who to blame.

He saved Pickett for last, in case Pickett was still pissed about being left behind.

Graves actually liked Newt’s tiny demon cat.  He had a weakness for anything with more fight in it than common sense.  (See Exhibit A: Tina Goldstein.)  Pickett was basically five and a half pounds of pure attitude.  Graves had given up on trying to force Newt to leave the exploding ball of fluff at home after he’d seen the little cat savage a rogue operative on Newt’s behalf.  Pickett always turned up in Newt’s pockets, anyway.

The earlier battle to evict Pickett from Newt’s coat pocket had been brief and very bloody, which was why Graves had donned a pair of oven mitts as a precautionary measure.  The oven mitts were an eye-searing shade of pink with polka dotted ruffles.  The right one advised Graves to “rock out with his crock out” and the left one featured an embroidered crock pot, just in case Graves failed to grasp the pun.

“Pickett?” Graves called.  There was no answering growl from the cat carrier, which Graves did not think was a good sign.  “Are you –”  He cut himself off when he noticed that the door to the cat carrier was ever so slightly ajar.

Graves pulled one of the ridiculous oven mitts off and picked up the cat carrier, tilting it slightly so that the door swung completely open.  Pickett failed to explode out of it like a miniature Tasmanian devil, which was his usual response to captivity.  The cat carrier was empty.

“Well, fuck,” said Graves.

*

Two goddamn hours of fruitless searching proved that Pickett was nowhere to be found inside the house, and that Graves ought to gift the Goldstein-Scamander’s with the name of his cleaning service as a wedding present.

Graves had never really believed Newt when Newt said that Pickett could pick locks.  Pickett was a cat, for fuck’s sake.  Cats couldn’t pick locks.  He still didn’t believe that, but he was fairly certain that Pickett, at least, understood how locks worked.  Because Graves sure as hell hadn’t left the back door unlocked, much less open just wide enough for an undersized demon cat to escape out of.

If anything happened to Pickett while he was under Graves’ care, Tina would murder him.  It would make the grudge she was carrying over his late arrival to and disruption of her wedding look like a walk in the park by a tranquil spring lake.  No one held grudges like Tina Goldstein, except maybe her sister Queenie.

Graves grabbed a bag of cat treats and went to look for Pickett.  He searched the yard methodically, working in a grid the way he would if he’d been looking for a missing person or a body.

“Pickett?” he called, shaking the bag of cat treats.  Pickett could occasionally be bribed with treats, and he was hoping that the little cat would recognize the sound and come running.  “Here, kitty, kitty.”

Newt and Tina lived on a two and a half acre plot that butted up against a nearby nature preserve.  A lot of Newt’s strays came from the preserve; they seemed to show up outside the house whenever they were sick and in need of healing.  Graves had no idea how Newt kept the wild animals from eating his (comparatively) more domesticated ones, but he’d seen Frank the bald eagle sunning himself in the windows with Cecil curled up on his back like Frank was a feather mattress and not a feathery predator more than once.  It was adorable.  He might have taken a picture, but he’d be damned if he admitted to doing so, even under torture.  Special Agent Graves did not have unlikely animal friendship photos on his phone.

Credence Barebone lived in the little gamekeeper’s cottage on the back of the property.  It was leftover from when the property and at least two of the surrounding homes had all been part of the same estate.  It was the perfect size for a traumatized young man who simply needed time and space and a little peace and quiet to heal.

Graves didn’t realize how close he was to the cottage until he was practically standing in the front garden.  Stained glass windchimes hung under the eaves, making a pleasant tinkling sound in the faint breeze.  They threw colored flecks of light all over the cottage walls, blending nicely with the riot of color emerging from the flowerbeds.  It looked nice, Graves thought.  Peaceful.

He turned away, not wanting to bother the little cottage or it’s occupant.  Except he still hadn’t found Pickett, and he could hardly say he had done his due diligence and looked everywhere if he didn’t at least ask Credence if he’d seen Pickett.

“Fuck,” Graves muttered.

Well.  There was no help for it.  He’d just have to ask.

Something above his head meowed.

Graves paused.  Then he tipped his head back and looked up into the branches of the oak tree next to the cottage.  Newt’s tiny demon cat stared down at him.  Graves was no expert in feline body language, but he was pretty sure that Pickett was laughing at him.

“Pickett,” he said sternly.  “Come down here.”

Pickett was definitely laughing at him now.  He meowed again. Graves was pretty sure Pickett had just said, Why don’t you come up here and make me, human.

“Fine,” said Graves, toeing off his shoes and socks.  “Be that way.  You think you’re the only one who can climb trees?  Because newsflash: I can climb trees too.”  He took the stupid sling off and dropped it next to his shoes and socks, using his good arm to boost himself in the tree.

His suit pants had definitely not been made with climbing trees in mind.  Graves gritted his teeth and concentrated on getting closer to Pickett, who had retreated farther up the tree just to be a dick.

“Please come down,” Graves tried.  “Newt will be upset if something happens to you.”

Pickett growled at the mention of Newt.  It sounded a lot like the little cat had just blown a raspberry at him.

“Okay, fine.  How about bribery?  Would bribing you with wet food work?” Graves inquired.

Pickett turned and climbed higher.  Graves swore under his breath and did his best to follow.  He was not prepared for a large feathery creatures to suddenly fly at his face.

“Jesus fuck!” said Graves, jerking backwards.  His left heel slid off the branch he’d been standing on and Graves flailed.  He tried to catch his balance, but his injured arm wouldn’t support his weight.

Graves’ last thought before he fell out of the fucking tree was that this was going to be a really embarrassing way to die.

*

Frank tapped at Credence’s window, trying to get his attention.

Credence unlatched the window in front of his desk and let it swing open.  Frank landed on the windowsill, which was scratched and worn from frequent visits.

“Hi, Frank,” Credence said.  He reached a hand out carefully, waiting to see if Frank wanted to be petted.

Frank blinked one large golden eye at him and bowed his head.  He let Credence stroke his head and scratch gently for just a second, and then he took a half step back and fluffed his feathers up.

“What’s up?” Credence asked.

There was something magical about interacting with Newt’s creatures.  It was like one of the stories he’d read, once he was free of Ma’s influence and allowed to read stories that weren’t in the Bible.  Newt was probably not actually magic the way that Daine Sarrasri was, but he talked to his creatures like they were people and tried to protect everyone the way that Daine did, which Credence figured made him the closest thing the real world had to a Wildmage.  Newt’s creatures always seemed smarter than other animals, the way the ones who’d been exposed to Daine did.  Credence couldn’t understand them as intuitively as Newt could, but there were days when he swore Frank was trying to communicate with him.  He was just too dumb to understand him.

Frank considered Credence for a long moment.  Then he hopped forward and screeched in Credence’s face.

Credence yelped in surprise and almost fell out of his desk chair.  “Frank!” he said, channeling Newt as best he could.  “That was rude!  What are you yelling at me for?”

Frank hopped on Credence’s desk.  He raised his wings like he was trying to make himself bigger, shifting his weight back and forth in agitation.

“What?” Credence asked.  “What’s wrong?  Do you miss Newt?”

Frank screeched again.

“I am not playing twenty questions with you if all you’re going to do is yell at me!” Credence yelled back.

Frank took off out the window, knocking books and knicknacks off of Credence’s desk as he went.  Then he swooped back and landed on the windowsill and screamed again.

“What?” Credence asked again.  “Do you want me to follow you?”

Frank bobbed his head.

“Did you just nod?” Credence asked.

Frank flapped his wings impatiently, as if to say, Yes, I did.  Keep up, would you?

“Right,” Credence said.  “Okay.  I’ll just … follow you outside, I guess.”

Newt made communicating with his creatures look so much easier than this.  Credence wondered what his secret was.  He felt stupid for not asking before now, but Newt always seemed so magical that Credence hadn’t wanted to risk breaking the spell just in case it broke everything else along with it.  Credence had been free of Ma’s influence for over a year now, and sometimes he still woke up thinking that he’d dreamed the whole thing up; that it was just an illusion he’d built in his mind to shield himself from the pain while she beat him.  Real life could not possibly be this magical.

Frank took off as soon as Credence opened his front door, heading straight for the oak tree in the front garden.  He didn’t land in the branches the way Credence expected him to, though.  He landed on the ground instead.

There was a man lying unconscious at Frank’s feet.  Or at least, Credence hoped he was just unconscious.

“You didn’t kill him, did you?” he asked Frank.

Frank fluffed his feathers up again and looked guilty.

“Holy Mary, Mother of God, you did,” Credence breathed.

Frank made an indignant sound.

“Or … not?” Credence asked.

Frank opened his wings and flapped them impatiently at Credence.

“Right,” said Credence.  “I guess you want me to check, huh?   Okay.  I can do that.”  He stared at the hopefully unconscious man for another minute.  “Maybe,” he admitted.

If the man needed medical attention, Newt and Tina and Queenie and Jacob would have helped him without a second thought.

Credence had plenty of second thoughts.  What if the man was an enemy agent, looking for Newt or Tina?  What if he wanted to hurt Credence?  What if he wanted to hurt Frank?  Or one of Newt’s other creatures?

Credence also wanted to be good, like Newt and Tina and Queenie and Jacob were.  He wanted to help people the way that they’d helped him.

“Okay,” he said again.  He approached the man cautiously, just in case he was an enemy agent and only pretending to be unconscious.  There was something strangely familiar about the man’s broad shoulders and the faint touch of silver threading through his dark hair.  Credence didn’t realize who he was until he’d pressed two shaking fingers to the man’s throat looking for a pulse and got a good look at his profile.

He knew that profile.  He knew the face it belonged to – both the real one and the fake.

Credence turned the man’s face gently to the side, running his fingers along the stubborn jawline to behind his ear, where the control chip for a Protean mask would rest.  He couldn’t feel any kind of telltale bump or incision scar.  This wasn’t a clever holographic illusion.

This was the real Mr. Graves.

Credence couldn’t decide if that made him feel better or worse.  He had never apologized to the real Mr. Graves for all the things he’d wanted from the fake one, but he was shamefully certain that the real Mr. Graves knew about them anyway.  There was rather a lot of surveillance footage, after all.

Thinking about the surveillance footage made Credence want to dig a hole in the garden and bury himself in it.  Grindelwald hadn’t needed to work very hard to make Credence do what he wanted.  All it had taken was a handsome face and the odd caress to go along with his liar’s tongue.  Credence should have known better than to think that someone like Mr. Graves would ever want someone like him.

Credence knew from long experience that if he continued down that line of thought he’d wind up having a panic attack in his bedroom closet again.  He shoved the knot of confusion and residual shame down and made himself focus on Mr. Graves.

He pressed his fingers to Mr. Graves’ throat again, resolutely not thinking about what it had been like to tuck his face against the curve of the fake Mr. Graves’ throat – Grindelwald had smelled of blood beneath Mr. Graves’ stolen cologne, but Credence hadn’t cared because he’d thought that Mr. Graves – that Grindelwald – would keep him safe.

He’d never dared to touch the real Mr. Graves before this.  

The heartbeat under his fingertips was strong and steady and strangely ordinary on such an extraordinary man.

“Thank God,” Credence breathed.  He sat back on his heels, trying to think of what to do next.  His first instinct was to call Newt and Tina, because Newt and Tina were professional spies and terrifyingly competent at everything they did, albeit in different ways.

Newt and Tina were on their honeymoon, though.  They had both assured him that he could call them at any time, but Credence would rather have cut off his own arm than actually do it.  He would have to handle this himself.

Mr. Graves made a faint noise and stirred slightly.

“Oh no,” Credence said.  He had a vague notion that you weren’t supposed to move unconscious people in case they had spinal damage or brain injuries.  He was less clear on whether or not you should allow the recently unconscious to move for the same reasons, but he didn’t want Mr. Graves to add potential spinal damage on top of his recent gunshot wound.  He reached out and grasped Mr. Graves’ shoulder, trying to keep him from moving.

Mr. Graves twisted, moving faster than a striking snake.  He grabbed Credence’s wrist and used it to roll them both so that Credence was pinned beneath him.

Frank screeched in surprise and took off for the safety of the oak tree, yelling abuse down at both of them.

Credence yelped in surprise and said something blasphemous, looking up at Mr. Graves in stunned incomprehension.

“Credence?” asked Mr. Graves, sounding just as baffled as Credence felt.

“Um.  Yes,” said Credence.  “Sorry.  I was trying to keep you from moving, in case you had a spinal injury or something, but I guess you’re okay?”

“Why would I have a spinal injury?” Mr. Graves asked, still sounding baffled.  He let Credence up.

“I – you were unconscious,” Credence told him.

“I was – Fuck,” said Mr. Graves.  “Not again.”

Credence stared at him.  That was … not really the response he was expecting, honestly.

“What?” asked Mr. Graves.

“Nothing,” Credence said quickly.  “It’s just … Does this happen to you a lot?  Because ‘not again’ isn’t the response I’d expect from someone I just found unconscious in my garden.”

“Not a lot, no,” said Mr.Graves, wincing as he reached up to brush leaves out of his hair.  “There may have been an incident with a ladder earlier this week.”

“An incident,” Credence repeated.  He was aware of the fact that he was still staring at Mr. Graves and that it was rude, but he couldn’t seem to make himself stop.

Mr. Graves raised an eyebrow at him.  “Tina didn’t tell you?”

“Not exactly,” Credence said, in lieu of admitting that what Tina had actually said was that Mr. Graves had the survival instincts of a squirrel on methamphetamines and couldn’t be trusted to stay out of trouble without a babysitter.

“Ah,” said Mr. Graves.  “Well.  I may have slipped.”  He gestured to the sling lying abandoned on the ground next to his socks and shoes.  “The damn thing got in my way.”

Credence ran that sentence through his ‘spy to normal people’ filter and suspected that what Mr. Graves meant was that he had slipped off the ladder and hit his head.  If he’d done that while he was wearing the sling, that made this the second time in under a week he had fallen off of  something and knocked himself unconscious.  Mr. Graves’ exasperated not again supported that theory.

“Right,” he said, standing up.  “We need to go to Medical.”

“What?  Why?”  Mr. Graves asked, getting up.  He didn’t move like someone who was recovering from a gunshot wound, but he was favoring his right arm just a little.  He reached for Credence, cupping Credence’s face in his left hand and peering into his eyes.  “Are you hurt?”

“Not for me,” Credence said, stepping back so that he wouldn’t lean pathetically into Mr. Graves’ touch the way he used to lean into Grindelwald’s.  “For you.”

“For me?” Mr. Graves repeated, sounding baffled again.

Credence put his hands on his hips and tried to channel the Goldstein sisters.  “I found you unconscious on the ground after you fell out of a tree,” he said, taking a guess at what had happened.  “I’m guessing you also fell off a ladder at some point, which means that this is the second time this week you’ve knocked yourself unconscious.  You need to go to Medical so they can check you for a concussion.”

“I don’t have a concussion,” said Mr. Graves.  “Trust me.  I’ve had enough of them to recognize the symptoms.  I appreciate your concern, Credence, but I’m fine.”

Credence folded his arms across his chest.  “You were unconscious,” he said.

“I was unconscious for what, not even five minutes?  That doesn’t even count.  It’s more like being momentarily stunned,” Mr. Graves said, dismissive.

Credence was starting to understand why Tina thought that Mr. Graves couldn’t be left to his own devices.  He’d never met anyone with such blatant disregard for their own health.  It was a little infuriating.  Credence had ignored his hurts because he had to.  Because he couldn’t afford to go to a hospital and he’d been too afraid to even he could have afforded it.  Ma had forbidden them to go to the doctor.  She hadn’t wanted any record of the things she’d done.

Mr. Graves had access to the best medical care the Agency could pay for, which meant that it was good enough to almost qualify as a divine miracle.  If he chose not to make use of those services, well.  He was a grown man and he could make his own decisions.

Mr. Graves peered up at the tree.  He did a little running leap and caught one of the branches, hanging from it by his good arm in a way Credence would have found brain-meltingly attractive if he had not been completely furious.

“Are you stupid?” he demanded, grabbing hold of Mr. Graves’ belt when Mr. Graves twisted to haul himself back into the tree he’d literally just fallen out of.  “Or brain damaged?”

Mr. Graves dropped out of the tree and gently pried Credence’s hand off of his belt.  “I beg your pardon?”

“You just fell out of that tree,” Credence said.  “Was once not enough?  Are you trying to give yourself brain damage?  Because you could just let Queenie hit you over the head with one of her frying pans if that’s what you want.  It’d be faster and less traumatic.”

Mr. Graves stared at him.  Credence suspected that he was not exactly making a good first impression on the real Mr. Graves and decided that he didn’t really care.  If Mr. Graves wanted to foolishly risk his own life and upset the people who cared about him, he could do it somewhere else.

“Pickett,” said Mr. Graves.

“What?”

Mr. Graves pointed.  “Pickett’s in that tree.  I was trying to get him down.  Frank startled me.”

“Oh,” said Credence.  “Why didn’t you just tell Pickett to come down?”

“Pickett’s a cat.  They don’t exactly do things on command.”

Credence tilted his head back, peering into the leaves until he spotted Pickett’s surprisingly well camouflaged tabby stripes.  “Pickett,” he said sternly.

“Mrow,” said Pickett, defiant.

“Pickett, you get out of that tree right now,” Credence said.

“Yeah, I don’t think that’s going to – son of a bitch,” said Mr. Graves.

Pickett wound his way through the branches and down the tree trunk.  The bells on his collar jingled cheerfully as he landed on the ground between them.

Credence bent down and picked the little cat up.  He didn’t have a convenient jacket pocket to tuck Pickett into, so he settled for putting Pickett on his shoulder instead.  “You and I are going to have a long talk about this,” he warned.  “And I’m going to tell Newt on you.  Just you see if I don’t.”

Pickett gave a very innocent sounding meow.  Credence did not believe it for a second, but he scratched Pickett’s ears anyway.

“And you,” Credence said to Mr. Graves, “are coming with me to get your head checked out.”  He took off towards the house, not waiting to see if Mr. Graves would follow.  He couldn’t make Mr. Graves come with him – Mr. Graves was stronger and better trained than he was – but Pickett needed to be brushed and fed and someone had to be on hand to dial 911 just in case Mr. Graves decided to do something stupid.

“Do you know,” Mr. Graves said, sounding amused.  “I thought you were afraid of me.”

“I’m not,” said Credence.  It would have been better if he’d been afraid, but he wasn’t.

“Yes, I can see that,” said Mr. Graves.  He was quiet for a moment.  “I owe you an apology.”

Credence stopped.  “What?”

Mr. Graves looked him in the eye.  Grindelwald had never bothered to do that, not that he’d needed to.  Credence wouldn’t have dared to meet his gaze back then.  It sent a weird flutter through Credence’s stomach now.  He liked that Mr. Graves treated him like a man – like an equal.

“I’m sorry,” said Mr. Graves.  “Grindelwald wronged you, but he did it with my face and my name, and I owe you an apology for that.  I should have spoken to you sooner, but I thought it would be kinder to leave you be.  You didn’t seem to like the sight of me.”

Credence had rather the opposite problem, but it didn’t seem like a good idea to admit that.

“You don’t owe me anything,” Credence said.  “If anything, I’m the one who owes you an apology.  I wanted –” He made a faint gesture in Mr. Graves’ direction, trying to communicate all the shameful things he’d wanted, back when he thought that Grindelwald was Mr. Graves.  He had lusted after Mr. Graves’ body, and that seemed disrespectful now that he knew the real man.

“Well,” said Mr. Graves.  “Either we both owe each other an apology, or neither of us do.  Perhaps we can start over.  Percival Graves,” he said, holding out his hand.

Credence shook it.  “Credence Barebone,” he said.

Mr. Graves smiled.  It was a brief, fleeting thing that made Credence’s insides feel like there was a swarm of butterflies inside of them.

“There’s an Italian restaurant near headquarters,” Mr. Graves said.  “What do you say we go there for dinner after Medical clears me of imaginary head injuries?”

“I’m starting to see why Tina says that there’s nothing in your head to injure,” Credence said, and then the rest of what Mr. Graves said hit him.  “Wait, dinner?”

Mr. Graves shrugged.  “We have some friends in common,” he said.  “If we’re starting over, perhaps we can be friends as well.  Dinner seems like a good place to start.”

The swarm of butterflies were doing the butterfly equivalent of the Agency’s obstacle course with his internal organs.

This is not a date, Credence told himself.  Mr. Graves was just being nice.

“I’d like that,” he said.

[archadianskies]

Gradence, 30

30. Sharing A Bath/Swim

(x)(x)(x)(x)

He was fine, truly. He’d long tired of their fussing, rejected their charity and absolutely loathed their pity. Percival Graves was many things, but a pitiable creature was not one of them. He was fine.

This was the fifth invigorating draught he’d emptied down his throat and he was just fine. He was going to draw himself a hot bath and soak for moment, then eat a meal and go to bed. Perfectly normal things to do for someone who was just fine.

Letting the tap run to fill up the tub, Percival took a moment to inspect his reflection; he was thinner, more haggard and less imposing, definitely needed a shave and an illegal amount of Pepper Ups and invigorating draughts. He had more greys than he remembered, more tired lines at the corners of his eyes and on his forehead; fatigue etched into his skin.

The healers wanted to keep him here at least a month, sharing the same roof as that boy but he would have none of that. He’d been here three days and already he felt like a caged, cornered animal. Seraphina had implored him to stay and rest, the closest she’d ever gotten to downright begging, but what love, what fondness he felt for her and their long years as schoolmates and colleagues fell a little short- she hadn’t noticed.

No one noticed. Not enough, anyway, to do anything about it. So he’d remained confined in a charmed cell inside the fine silver shaving kit Theseus gifted him all those years ago. A cosy little place, Grindelwald had reassured him, to spend his time reflecting on his loved ones before he’d kill them.

Water crept under his toes, startling him out of his bitter memories and it was with a frustrated groan that he realised the bath was overflowing. Muttering a quick spell to clean up the mess took more out of him than he’d assumed, and Percival found himself unsteady on his feet atop wet tiles. Crouching, turned off the tap and dug his hand into the bathwater, pulling the plug so it could drain enough to fit him without overflowing again.

The water was near scalding as he lowered himself into it, and he grit his teeth as the heat radiated through his tired, aching muscles. A hot bath, a hot meal, and a warm bed. Perfectly fine.

Percival Faolán LorccánGraves, the Director of Magical Security, was fine, just fine and tomorrow he’d go back to work.

Credence Barebone was still unsure as to how Ms Porpentina Goldstein had convinced Madam President Seraphina Picquery to forgive his monstrous actions and allow him into the healing house.

He’d been a slip, a wisp of smoke and betrayal and agony when she’d found him in the ruins of the church, coaxed him into her palms and rained on him with her tears. She was the one person who hadn’t lied to him, hadn’t worn the face of a friend and hurt him. She never tried to kill him the way the other Aurors tried, with their gritted teeth and their fury and their disgust and desperation.

She’d pleaded his case while he cowered in borrowed clothes charmed from her own wardrobe and he felt small, so small and worthless and furious and vengeful at the same time. 

But she’d won because she saw the guilt behind their gusto and she knew, she knew if she could show them a boy instead of a monster they’d be consumed by discomfort. 

And so he’d found himself under the same roof as Mr Graves- the real Mr Graves, and not a wanted Dark Wizard wearing the face of Mr Graves promising Credence the world.

He didn’t know this Mr Graves, and it seemed this Mr Graves didn’t want to get to know him, didn’t want to touch him and whisper offers of salvation. In fact their interactions could be counted on one hand with fingers to spare.

Credence tried to tell himself it was fine, it was for the best. He should be grateful for the hospitality, that they’re doing this at all, and once he’s back on his feet he can- he can…start again. Far away in a city that doesn’t know him.

He will plead with them to find Modesty and make sure she’s alright, and if it’s possible, to deliver her the letter he spent hours painstakingly writing with trembling hand and threadbare sanity.

The Obscurus was grafted into his very bones, and he was grafted into the Obscurus. There was no separating them- they were the Obscurial that laid waste to New York and until Credence could show he could control it, he would stay confined.

‘Confined’. As if the healing house wasn’t absolute luxury compared to rickety, mouldy church with its creaking boards and wailing winds. He and his sisters slept on hard wooden palettes with lumpy barely passable mattresses  and pillows, and scratchy moth-eaten blankets. They ate stale bread and thin gruel and cabbage soup once a day. 

Petty as it was, Credence opened the refrigerator just to look at all the food inside. It was never empty, as was the generous pantry, and one afternoon Credence had watched in amazement as a meal cooked itself in the kitchen before neatly floating over to the dining room and setting itself down over two plates. 

He’d devoured his meal first, before gingerly taking the other plate to the bedroom down the hall. Mr Graves had looked at him the way one looked at an insistent stray dog. He accepted the plate though, and Credence considered it a small victory.

The first time they’d met was with Ms Goldstein introducing them - Mr Graves had ignored the hand Credence outstretched in greeting, wordlessly turned heel and locked himself in his assigned bedroom.

Aside from the healers who came in to check on them daily, Credence spent his time alone stewing in his destructive thoughts. He wondered if Mr Graves did the same. He wondered if Mr Graves thought him nothing but a ghost haunting him. He wondered if Mr Graves thought about him at all.

As quietly as he could manage, he crept down the hall intending to retreat to his own bedroom until his socks squelched beneath him. Puzzled, Credence looked down to find water inching out from beneath the bathroom door.

“Mr Graves?” He knocked thrice and received no answer. “Mr Graves are you alright? Mr Gra-”

The doorknob twisted open with ease and Credence hesitantly stepped inside. The air felt cold and damp, and the bathroom floor was slick. In the bathtub, Percival Graves lay limp like a discarded ragdoll.

“Mr Graves! Oh-” Credence scrambled to his side, almost slipping in his hurry. “Mr Graves wake up! Mr Graves!” 

Rolling up his sleeves, there was no time for propriety as he sunk his hand into the bathwater and yanked the plug. As the bathsuds and water drained, Percival’s body came into view and it was then that Credence saw the damage their captor had caused.

He was covered in thick ropes of scars, and he was thin, far too thin for a man of his frame. Starting from his right hand and trailing up his arm, the scar tissue looked like lightning forked across his skin. It would’ve been beautiful, had it not been gained through horrific circumstances.

“Mr Graves, please!” Credence tried shaking him awake but to no avail. Getting back to his feet, Credence stumbled over to the linen cupboard and pulled out all the towels he could carry before returning to the bathtub.

“Please wake up, please please please-” Dumping the towels beside him, he plucked one up and tried to wrap it around the unresponsive man. He tried his best to wrap another towel around him, and paused briefly, selfishly, to draw him close.

“Please don’t die, please don’t die,” Credence murmured into his dark, silvering hair. “Please don’t leave me here alone.”

Leaning Percival back against the tub, Credence stepped into it to try and secure a third towel around his lower back.

(Don’t look don’t look don’t look-)

“Mr Graves you have to wake up!” Credence pleaded, his voice high with panic. Now straddling him, Credence gripped his shoulders and shook him again. “Please wake up!”

He did. 

A hand shot out and squeezed around his throat, and Credence choked as his breath left him. The dark shadow in the pit of his chest reared up, and he felt his eyes start to burn.

(NO! No no no stop he’s a friend he’s a friend he’s a friend STOP!)

“C-Credence?” The sudden rush of air as Percival let go made his head spin and Credence gripped the rim of the bathtub to steady himself.

“Mr Graves y- you were out cold! I didn’t-”

“Pass me that bottle.” His speech was slurred, his eyes struggling to focus. “That one there by the sink.”

Obediently Credence climbed out of the tub, pausing only when he held the bottle in his hand and spotted several empty ones inside the sink.

“Sir, the healers said you- you can’t have more than two of these-”

“Give it to me.” He growled low and threatening, but it felt weak to Credence. Far too weak.

“No.” He put the bottle down. “No I will not. I will help you to bed and get you some food.”

“Credence-”

“No.” The creature inside thrashed against his ribcage but he swallowed it down. “No sir. You will do as I say this time.”

The Obscurial of New York was babying him.

If he wasn’t struggling to breathe he would have laughed at the absurdity of it all. And yet the young man, with nothing to his name but horrors, tended to him patiently. Kindly.

He’d mustered enough strength to climb out of the tub, legs shaky as a newborn foal, and the boy had shouldered him as they made their way to his bedroom.

Stubbornly he’d managed to put on a pair of flannel pyjama trousers, but that had been the last of his strength. Credence peeled back the bedcovers, waited until Percival had crawled into bed, then gently tugged them over his torso and smoothed them at his chin.

“Sleep now, Mr Graves. I’ll have food ready when you wake.”

Shame bubbled up from the pit of his stomach, and he felt sick at his earlier behaviour. Though his arm felt like lead, he slid it from beneath the covers and fumbled sideways until he could grasp Credence’s hand.

The darkness was closing in again, faster this time, with no potions to ward it off but somehow Percival didn’t care anymore. Feebly squeezing Credence’s hand in gratitude, he tried to keep his grip tight as the boy eventually pulled away.

Tentative, featherlight fingertips touched his lips and he sighed as the darkness swallowed him up.

“Goodnight, Mr Graves.”

The darkness felt like home.