chitter-chatter all these secrets started giving me the shivers;

[repressings]

WHO: Credence Barebone, Percival Graves, anyone else
WHERE: Barebone-Graves residence, fountain
WHEN: June 15th-16th
OPEN TO: Everyone
WARNINGS: Standard Credence warnings, specifically parental death
STATUS: Open

---

i ➼ I ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʙʀᴜɪsᴇ ᴡᴀs ᴜɴᴅᴇʀsᴛᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴄᴀᴜsᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ꜰᴇᴇʟ ᴛʜɪs ᴀɴʏᴍᴏʀᴇ; closed to Graves
It's something Tina mentioned to him when he asked why Mary Lou knew about wizards. Why everyone else was sure magic was just a fairytale, but Mary Lou was staunch in her belief. It bothers him less that Graves didn't tell him--he knows that's how the other operates, how Graves answers Credence's questions honestly but doesn't give any unnecessary information. Instead, what's really gnawing at Credence is that he didn't ask the right question. He'd thought he was getting better at that.

It was almost a game, asides from their question-for-an-answer. He's never quite told Graves said game of course, but Credence tries to phrase his questions to get the most out of him. He considers a simple 'yes' or 'no' a failure in these circumstances, even though a yes or no is usually enough to satisfy his curiosity. Credence wants more, ravenously hungry for knowledge. Newt and Tina will happily provide answers to anything he asks, and Credence plans on using this to his full advantage so long as they don't mind, but he still wants Graves to teach him, too.

It's finally too hot for him to handle a long-sleeved shirt and jeans when he gets back from the mill, and since he's just in their house and not planning on leaving, Credence opts to wear his white scrubs again. They're lighter, just cotton, even if his arms show the criss-cross markings of unhappier times. Unhappier times he now knows and recognizes as much more complicated than he could imagine. Which brings him to the question he wants to ask.

He finds Graves in the living room, and he wants to say it's evening despite the never-ending blazing sun. His footsteps are quiet, barefeet, and he stops at the doorway, watching the older man for few moments before speaking.

"Ma knew what I was, didn't she? She knew what my real mom was, too."

ii ➼ Iᴛ's ɢᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ʙʟᴜᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ꜰᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ꜰᴇᴇʟ ᴛʜɪs ᴀɴʏᴍᴏʀᴇ; OTA
The more Credence thinks about how hot it is, the hotter he feels, and the more he thinks about how he shouldn't think about how hot it is the more he does. The circular puzzle he's trapped in is ridiculous. The problem with dressing in long-sleeved shirts and long pants is that, even if they're airier thanks to the fact that they're Kira's clothing and not his own, it's even more hot, which jumpstarts the entire thing.

He does his chores for the day and decides the best course of action is to copy what he'd spied Queenie doing a little while ago: he makes his way to the fountain, book close to his chest, dips his feet in, and reads. It's Frankenstein, which he's sure he's read at least 30 times since Christmas, but it's not like he has anything new.

It's when he finishes a chapter that he looks up--he squints against the sun, frowning--and muses, not necessarily to the person passing by.

"Do you ever wonder why they don't give us books very often? The ones that watch us."

---

iii ➼ Iᴛ's ᴀ ʙᴀᴄᴋᴡᴀʀᴅs ᴀᴛᴛʀᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰᴏʀᴡᴀʀᴅ ᴇʏᴇs;

Feel free to spy Credence at the fountain or by the river, or sometimes at the inn doing whatever needs to be done (most likely sweeping).

Comments

ii

[9601]

It's been quite a long day for Logan. Building a firebreak is an arduous task, a process of clearing brush, churning up the earth, removing any and all fuel for a potential blaze that might, if they're fortunate, never happen in the first place. Jean has shadowed him like a good pupil since the morning, but now, at the hottest part of the day, it's time for a well deserved rest.

He's hot, sweaty, and doesn't particularly notice the skinny boy sitting there at the fountain just yet. Granted, he's heard the question, but waits to answer it. First, Logan takes a knee so he can splash water up over his face, back through his hair. Once sated, he sits back to shoot the kid a look, wiping his eyes.

"They give you books?"

[repressings]

He'd been absorbed in a chapter--engrossed despite the fact that he most likely knows it by heart--when Logan sits back and his face is clear. Credence panics.

It's a jump, shoulders pressed in, leaning as far away from his as possible--away from pointed nose and square jaw, away from Logan. He's met him. Once, in the winter. He'd tried--desperately--to come out of his shell and try to meet a newcomer. What he got instead was pinned to a wall, unable to answer the other's demands.

That's right. Since May, more people have arrived. This one isn't the other, clearly, and very carefully Credence, as cautious as ever, resumes his position, even if he's still owlishly blinking.

He can do this. He can stay calm. This one isn't angry.

"Only sometimes, sir." He makes a point to hit the word sir as a reminder that he's being polite, just in case he has a temper. "I've only got one--for Christmas."

He can do this.

"D-do you... Do you read?"

[9601]

Well now, that reaction is hard to miss. It's a reaction he's too familiar with, but generally it comes from those who've had brushes with the business end of his claws, not a pale, scrawny boy with an unfortunate haircut. His nostrils flare like he'll be able to smell this kid's fear, to peel from him some scrap of extra info he can't figure by sight alone. It's a habit that hasn't died yet, useless now. Logan can't smell anything beyond the trees, the sweltering heat in the thick air, and his own sweat.

Curious now, he waits to say anything while the boy composes himself, eyes narrowed. Getting 'sir'd earns a quirk of one brow, and that question makes him snort.

Logan settles down properly, drying his hands on his dark overalls.

"Yeah." A hair sharp, like he's insulted by the question. He continues, more mild, "Not much anymore. Not like that-" and he nods at Frankenstein.

"Do I know you or something, kid?"

[repressings]

There it is, that nostril flare, and he's half expected to be asked where are the others or something, and his gaze rakes warily over him before...

...Oh, just like that, he's drying his hands. Credence stares, brows slightly knit, lips thinned. It's confusion instead of fear, even if the sharp tone of his voice causes him to curl into himself. That's not a remnant of the other one, though--that's Credence's natural response to that jagged sounding tone. Eventually, closing the book (he memorizes the page he's on), he shrugs again.

"Not exactly, sir, it's--I mean, we met before. Briefly. But it wasn't you, you."

[9601]

He rolls his eyes heavenward, like he'll see some sort of answers written in the cloudless sky. Why. Logan sighs, dragging a hand down his face.

"Look, uh...whatever your name is- You can stop right there. That's all I need to know. Last me sounds like a real douche. Sorry," he adds there at the end. It seems this boy deserves an apology for whatever that other him did, and he's not too proud to offer it.

Logan considers if he ever met himself, this older, crusty version or maybe even a younger one, he'd punch him in the face.

[repressings]

He's not sure what douches have to do with anything, but from what he's gathered from his time spent with Kira it's similar to 'idiot,' and he shrugs. A strange part of him is wondering if there's twins, now, or whether or not the other one will somehow show up at the same time.

"Credence. I'm Credence, sir. It's alright, I--if I were very angry, I might have done the same thing. I think he was just scared."

[9601]

He leans aside to cup a hand in the fountain, and splash a little more water over the back of his neck. What else had he done here? Was the next twenty-something he met going to be sporting scars from an altercation or something?

"Credence." Weird name for a weird kid, but he can honestly say he's met (and taught) weirder. "You don't gotta 'sir' me, kid. It's Logan, alright? Where are you from?"

[3ofswords]

"Because reading is for squares," Kira answers easily, finding Credence well before he's had to endure the studying of interacting with Credence in Graves' presence. He's actually snuck off to fool around with girls who had fathers less suspicious and controlling, and he has no such intentions with this friend.

Instead of sitting at Credence's side, Kira just leans a hip against the long bow of Credence's back, peering over his shoulder to see the same book it always is. He wonders if it's a comfort to read about a monster more human than its creator, or just a means of pressing a bruise, over and over.

The latter is probably why they have books at all.

Slipping a finger into the collar of his own shirt, stretched by every body he's shared it with, he tugs the damp fabric away from Credence's skin. Even after he fainted on his own porch, Credence insists on covering up. "Come on," he says, leaning on him in friendly, shit-giving earnest: "we're going swimming at the waterfall."

[repressings]

"N--no," Credence begins, even though he knows Kira is joking. He hugs the book protectively, unsurprised when Kira gently bumps him with his hip--Kira is incapable of anything normal--water is wet, the sun is warm, and Kira touches people in very strange ways and places. Peculiar.

Like now, as he touches Credence's collar and Credence instinctively curls. Not because Kira is a bully, or would do anything to harm him, but because it's too darn hot and he doesn't feel like being lectured again. He's about to say something, too, to stand up for himself preemptively when--

"We are?"

[3ofswords]

"Unless you'd rather swim in the fountain," he offers, and he's only teasing so much about it. He's been in the fountain several times now, and he still doesn't believe there's anything magical or sinister about it--it's just a fountain, where the're dumped to wake up after whatever happens on the way in.

Or where they're programmed to wake up, if you hold to Mark's theory.

As if to press the issue, he steps back and starts to lift the hem of his tank, fully prepared in this heat to leave it on the edge with his shorts and swim down to the bottom. "It's up to you," he tells Credence. Strip down at the fountain or try for a corner of the pool in the woods.

[repressings]

"No," Credence cuts in, and it's mostly because swimming in the fountain is crazy. It may be Kira's brand but it's not his: he's half expecting Kira to jump in again but what happens is just a little worse.

"Kira!" His voice rises, which is another feat only Kira can really do, and without even thinking his hands move to grab at Kira's wrist, preventing him from pulling his tank top up.

At least he's not stammering and turning around: he's actually trying to stop him. He looks pointedly at Kira (to the left of Kira) and then down at the fountain.

"Okay, okay. The woods."

[3ofswords]

Kira laughs at the absurdity of it--he probably shouldn't, probably should be coddling Credence a little more in light of everything that's happened. It's just so hard to go back, to let go of any progress even in the hopes of adjusting for the future. That Credence can touch him--be so bold as to grab him--just to keep him from taking off his shirt--

It's as silly and backwards as Credence himself often is. It isn't even anything he hasn't seen before, but Kira puts both hands up in acquiescence. "It's fine, Credence, I'm hardly the only guy wandering around without his shirt." God help them if Credence crosses paths with Isabelle, though it might lead to an interesting conversation about whether Kira borrowing a fucking sports bra would make him feel better about seeing his barely-there abs.

"Come on, you can bring your book if it makes you feel better."

[repressings]

"It'll get wet," Credence protests, completely missing Kira's tone of voice and following. He follows blindly, trying his best to ignore the fact that there are other people--men--wandering around without shirts. He hadn't seen any and honestly, he doesn't know what he'd do if he did.

He settles for shuffling after Kira, hunched over. He's fallen a step behind, but mostly because he has no clue which path Kira wants to take versus being too shy to move next to him.

"Did you read when you were home? What'd you like?" He can see Kira liking mysteries, that's for certain. And maybe a secret romance novel.

II

[onlyeverdoubted]

"My thoughts were about holovids, but you're probably smarter than I am," Bodhi says lightly. He's slowly losing his aversion to the fountain as the heat persists and the river shrinks. He joined Queenie himself for a bit, actually, though he's far less shy of Credence, moving in to sit close enough that they can talk easily, though leaving more than enough space for air flow. Bodhi's surrendered entirely to the heat and his scrubs top has been lying untouched at home for days, leaving him to shuffle around in just the pants. He's even starting to consider doing something about his hair, mostly because the beard and grown-in undercut are starting to annoy him. The long bit in the back can still be tied up out of the way.

"What's it about?" He's not seen a lot of paper books in his life, but he does have at least a general sense of what it is and what it's for.

[repressings]

He doesn't know what a holovid is, but it must be something Bodhi likes, so Credence decides he likes it, too. Even if he doesn't agree with the fact that he's smarter than Bodhi.

Plus, the other shifts up to him without a single moment of hesitation. He feels his heart beating just a little faster, and he hides half a smile by staring at the fountain.

"It's about a man," he says softly, "Who creates life. But everyone thinks it's a monster, and it's very sad. Someone gave it to me for Christmas, and since it's the only book I have..." He holds it up; his version of a shrug.

"Do you want to borrow it? It's very well written."

[onlyeverdoubted]

Bodhi has questions that he manages to bite his tongue on in time. Creating life like a modified clone? Given the way that shook out, maybe monstrous wouldn't be that bad a word for it. The thought makes him more interested in the actual book, wondering what the science of Credence's time would have to say on the subject.

But, to be fair... "I wouldn't want to take your only book," he says reluctantly, remembering all the times he rewatched the better bootlegs of pre-Imperial holos. When there's not much entertainment to chose from, the little available is more valuable than anything but food and sleep. Sometimes those, too, depending on how far into a long hyperspace haul you are. "It sounds good, though." A little wistful. "Christmas?" Just to distract himself from book mooching. He has no idea what that would be.

[repressings]

"You wouldn't be taking it," Credence says quickly, and he's already closing it after dog-earing a page for the umpteenth time. "You'd be borrowing it, so when I want to read it again," he cautiously takes the other's hand, his movements purposely slow, to slide the book into it.

There. He's physically handed you something, so now Bodhi can't say no. It's a trick he learned from Kira. At the next question, though--excuse him as he balks.

"Christmas? There's no Christmas in space?" Nevermind Bodhi's from a different universe.

[onlyeverdoubted]

He should be protesting more, but his traitorous hands have already closed over the cover. He is desperate for an escape sometimes, and there's only so much time he can spend thinking through old episodes of Beyond the Outer Rim and coming up with new endings.

He's so gratefulyl flustered he doesn't even think about Credence's hand on his until it's over, forgetting entirely to be afraid, feeling none of the crawling panic that calls to mind tentacles and torture and being blindly dragged through the catacombs. He only realizes he should have when the momentary warmth leaves, so different from the unrelenting heat.He even glances down for a moment at his hand as if to make sure it's still there where he left it. His first comfortable human contact in months.

It's partly that Credence did everything right, moving slowly, not making him feel confined, moving with purpose. It's mostly just that it's Credence, though.

Good thing he has something better to focus on than how alarming that wasn't. "No, there... If there is, I've never heard of it," he says measuredly, smiling. He supposes he could clarify that "in space" doesn't mean much of anything, but really, he likes the way it sounds. Like he leads the life he imagined for a pilot when he was a teenager scrambling to leave home for, well, space and all its ill-defined wonders.

[repressings]

"It's a holiday most of us celebrate here," he explains, and then realizes putting it on religious context might be strange. Bodhi comes from a world of temples, and deserts, and teahouses, not strong churches and crucifixion.

"It's the birthday of our God," he says after a while. "And you put up a pine tree, and put presents under the tree, and then you open them the next day." He'd never got presents, of course. "And you have a big ham or turkey, or you're supposed to." He'd never had that, either. He blinks for a few more moments, glancing over.

"What genre do you like in books? That one's horror."

[mund]

Graves is aware of his presence even before he speaks -- Credence might be barefoot and quiet as a cat, no doubt habits he's picked up through the years of tiptoeing around Mary Lou Barebone's violent compulsions, but his question is unexpected. They've made something of a game of it, Credence asking questions and Graves answering them -- precise and to the point, no more and no less. It's training, he supposes; if you want the right answers, ask the right questions.

He looks over at him from the window, and supposes that this question is to be expected. Credence is too bright, too curious to not ask this one day, and Graves contemplates him for a moment, weighing his answer. He won't lie to him, no, and his gaze lingers on the dull scars he'd once seen when he had to undress him to apply much-needed ointment and dressings. Here in the light of an oddly never-setting sun, the scars seem more pronounced.

Not that it matters, either way -- he hears Mary Lou is dead.

"Yes, it seems so." Credence had seem particularly hated by her, and perhaps it's the Scourer blood in the woman that had picked up with MACUSA had missed, and in it is a tragedy. "Do you remember ever manifesting any kind of power when you were young? Any unexplained incident?"

[repressings]

He takes Graves' answer as an invitation, albeit a silent one, and carefully makes his way to him. He's proud at how he doesn't even hesitate, sitting across from him, although he does wish he brought himself some water, or anything to keep himself occupied in case things turn unexpected.

With Graves and questions, it always turns unexpected.

"Yes," He murmurs, and wonders what it has to do with anything. He can't quite remember what exactly, but he remembers before Modesty even came into his life--he remembers beatings worst than usual, he remembers Mary Lou's hisses of how Credence was a monster.

He'd rather not, but he remembers all the same.

"May I ask why?"

[mund]

"Children manifest their powers at an early age. It's usually something small, insignificant, but a sign to parents that their child is magical." Graves looks back at him, assessing, calculating. There are many reasons why a woman would take in a child, even a woman as full of hate as Mary Lou Barebone -- but he's often contemplated the idea that perhaps she knew that there was some measure of magic in the children she adopted.

Maybe this was her way of spreading poison. "Ms. Barebone," He says again. "You remember Rappaport's Law, don't you? The people who caused this to come into effect."

[repressings]

Credence nods, listening raptly. Of course, it makes sense. He can't quite remember all the details, but he vaguely recalls starting a fire on the wood stove when he was just a child. He certainly recalls the bruises he'd received because of it.

It makes sense that she'd known. Maybe Mary Lou had even known before deciding to adopt him. What confuses Credence is the why. Why keep him as a proverbial and literal whipping boy if she wanted all of their (his?) kind eradicated?

He's mulling this over, face pinched in concentration. "Miss Tina told me about Rappaport," He confesses, still looking determined to sort out his thoughts. "Why?"

[mund]

"The Barebones are the descendants of Scourers, corrupted, evil wizards who have hunted and tortured their own kind and are hunted in turn -- to face justice for their crimes." Graves tells him after a moment, his words objective, neutral. "But they disappeared into the No-Maj community before anyone could find them. And the children they had, magical children, were abandoned and left to fend for themselves.

"These children grew up hating magic bitterly, believing that it exists even if they cannot use it. The hate is passed down the generations, and your adoptive mother is one of them."

It's the longest Graves ever spoke, but this is what Credence needs to know, the knowledge that is owed him.

[repressings]

He nods a second time, finding himself drawn to his usual spot. This is one of their talks, it seems: they're switching back to old patterns again. Credence finds a soft sort of comfort in that, and while he doesn't lean back his shoulders straighten, just a little. He can ask questions here.

It's safe here.

"It makes sense," He murmurs, and after a moment he inhales sharply. His gaze flicks to Graves, as if momentarily unsure of what he's about to say, before he settles on the floor once more.

"I guess what I don't understand is why she took me in and helped me, instead of leaving me for someone else if she hated magic so much and she knew. She said--she told me my real mother, she was an unnatural, wicked person. So she had to have known, somehow."