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mund) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
sixthiterationlogs2017-09-23 01:05 pm
mund) wrote in sixthiterationlogs2017-09-23 01:05 pm
closed.
WHO: Percival Graves, Credence Barebone
WHERE: Their home
WHEN: 22 September
OPEN TO: closed
WARNINGS: Nothing, really. At least not yet.
Graves likes to think that he's a reasonable man most of the time, and he has a very refined sense of staying out of people's personal affairs when they don't concern his line of work. To that end, he generally leaves Credence alone, giving him his space and privacy despite the fact that they live under the same roof and often cross paths, spending time together in the evenings with a regularity that is assuring.
Of late, however, Credence has been withdrawing. If he has to pinpoint the night it started, it ought to be somewhere in the beginning of the month. He had left it well alone in the beginning, believing that if needed, the boy would have come to him for help, and that it would go away on its own.
It didn't.
And so tonight, during one of their sessions (where he's much, much quieter than usual, turning out to be more silence than discussion), he speaks. "What is it?"
WHERE: Their home
WHEN: 22 September
OPEN TO: closed
WARNINGS: Nothing, really. At least not yet.
Graves likes to think that he's a reasonable man most of the time, and he has a very refined sense of staying out of people's personal affairs when they don't concern his line of work. To that end, he generally leaves Credence alone, giving him his space and privacy despite the fact that they live under the same roof and often cross paths, spending time together in the evenings with a regularity that is assuring.
Of late, however, Credence has been withdrawing. If he has to pinpoint the night it started, it ought to be somewhere in the beginning of the month. He had left it well alone in the beginning, believing that if needed, the boy would have come to him for help, and that it would go away on its own.
It didn't.
And so tonight, during one of their sessions (where he's much, much quieter than usual, turning out to be more silence than discussion), he speaks. "What is it?"
no subject
He's fixating. He's fixating on Kira, and the fact that even though he apologized, even though it's right, it's still not right. Not to Credence. He's regressed, he thinks, he's stepped a little back.
Kira had said it, hadn't he? Maybe not in so many words, but when he'd been angry, he'd said that at least Credence has people from his world here. He does, he has Graves, but a part of a seed had been planted. soon, Graves will go away, too.
So he withdraws. He withdraws, and he regresses, and he's back to his usual self. He's always been quiet, but even as he asks, he can't quite find the curiosity in his voice.
Credence is afraid.
He clears his throat, avoiding the question altogether. "I've been practising remembering the witches of Salem in order. Would you like to hear?"
no subject
Not one to press the point unless absolutely necessary, he simply nods. One does not get somewhere with someone as slippery as Credence by clamping down tight. No, one waits.
"Of course."
no subject
Credence feels better, knowing he's won in a strange way, knowing Graves isn't pushing. Maybe this is all he has to do: slide just under the other's radar. Graves is observant, Graves is very observant, almost unnervingly so. Even better than the one that was-and-wasn't him.
Strange. This is the first time in a very long time he's even thought about him. About the necklace, even, other than a passing thought as he tucks it in his pocket. Now, though, as he recites them from memory--Deliverance Dane goes first, because she's the most important--it's all he can think about.
He wants to press the other, but, no. Graves will go away, too. So he finishes the list, gives a half, meaningless smile, and settles down in his chair. Time to ask another question. Time to keep Graves distracted.
"What about forbidden spells?" He asks. "Have you ever done one, before?"
no subject
Graves indulges him, listening to the names he knows by heart. Credence is deflecting, deflecting, the thread of their conversation flitting towards distraction, a sleight of hand that shoes promise and the beginning of skill; but to distract Graves will require more savvy than that.
He doesn't look away, but doesn't press against what seems to have Credence sore, like a cat nursing its wounds, too full of pride to let another tend to it. "Is it something you'd like to try?"
no subject
"I never thought I could," he confesses. "But it has to be forbidden for a reason."
Perfect. Credence is slipping further and further away. He looks to the side, hands clasped neatly on his lap, almost unsure. "But you don't get in trouble, then, for doing it? You don't break the law?"
no subject
And Graves, who has the dispensation to do it without reprisal in his official capacity, knows the difference very well. Still, he likes that he manages to catch him off guard, and he studies him briefly.
"Why do you ask this?"
no subject
What he does instead is shrug, and study his hands for just a little longer, shifting his weight. he can't help that he looks uncomfortable--he feels uncomfortable.
"I don't know," he mumbles, gaze downwards, towards the floor. To think, weeks earlier, that he was going to drum up the courage to get him to play chess.
"Mr. Graves, I--" He presses his lips into a thin line, and shakes his head.
"May I be excused?"
no subject
Graves murmurs, his eyes trained steadily on him. There is no trace of anger or displeasure in his tone, not quite -- Credence is skittish and evasive, and he will not have him slip from his grasp, not tonight. And since he so politely asked, well, how can he not up the ante just so?
"Something is the matter, isn't it? Who was it?"
no subject
It's a matter of time. By the time he's opened his eyes, he's already evaluated the situation: the tone and cadence in Graves' voice, the situation at hand. The other doesn't seem angry, just pressed, like there's some sort of difference.
Still. Credence swallows the sudden lump in his throat.
"Please don't worry, it's been sorted out," He murmurs. Jude was there, giving him the best answers he could. And Kira hadn't meant any of it, Credence can hardly be mad at his best friend--isn't that a pleasant phrase?--for very long.
But it had got him thinking.
"How long until you go, too? Like Mr. Scamander Mr. Kowalski, and Miss Goldstein and Queenie."
no subject
Yes, there's that, isn't it? The people Graves cares for are now gone, slipped from the village and hopefully back home, and the question still stands: how long more before either of them are gone? How long more until Graves returns to face his inevitable fate?
The thought is a bitter one, and he takes his time to answer.
"Is that what is bothering you? When I will go?"
tw suicide
He can't seem to look at him, not anymore. His gaze stays on the floor, and he still feels his heart hammering in his chest.
"I think losing people here, it.. it's worse, in a way. Because we're so confined. Because we're such a small group. It's not New York, where people come and go." And if Kira goes, or Jude goes... If you go, I'm not sure what I'd do."
He does, though. He'd say awful, awful things, and lash out. Or maybe he'd just take matters into his own hands. If all of them left, and he was the only one, the world would seem so sparse.
no subject
There's something in Credence's words that spark off concern, an instinct that Graves trusts, and considering how they have come to be essential to each other in the months that have led up to tonight, Graves is aware that his absence will not be an easy loss to bear.
He's seen what the others' departures have done to him, and this time -- well, this time, he's the last. "So you don't have to do anything, Credence."
no subject
"Sir?" He's unsure what to say, and while he looks a little uneasy it's not at Graves at all. A part of him briefly wonders if Graves intends to kill him and then take his own life, but he quickly dismisses that. He means home.
If Graves goes home, Credence will, too.
"I know there's nothing back there for us," He says quietly, "But I do miss it an awful lot."
no subject
Credence looks at him askance, and Graves is reminded that there's very little for them back there. The end of the road in that world, perhaps, and Queenie tells him that it had ended well for them all.
Perhaps this is where they are meant to be, their deaths.
"What is it that you miss?"
no subject
Suddenly, he's sheepish. It's a myriad of emotions in a short span, but that seems typical for conversations with Mr. Graves. He draws them out of Credence, whether he realizes it or not.
He thinks, and tries desperately to narrow it down.
"I miss traffic," He says finally. "The sound of automobiles, and footsteps--and I miss laying in bed listening to it on weekends, when everyone would go out, and get so wonderfully dressed up." He'd pretended to be them, he remembers. He always liked imagining himself in good suits and decent shoes, laughing and talking and gossipping on his way to speak-easies.
"Mostly, I miss people. I'd never talk to them, and no one cared about me, but I miss their noises."
no subject
The journey back to those days is all but impossible. There is nothing left there for them but death, and Graves supposes, grimly, that another will take his place as Director, that they ought to keep the community safe, the Aurors alive, still.
"Yes, they can be quite... talkative." He says at last, the faintest note of amusement in his words despite the situation. "What did you learn from them?"
no subject
He shrugs, because at least with this, he can pretend they do have something to go back to.
"I think sometimes it's good that no one likes you or cares about you. That way, you can listen. I think that's what he thought, too, and then just told me what I wanted to hear." Grindlewald. The man who had held him close and asked for him to keep his eyes open, to keep his ears always listening.
no subject
He learns quickly, Graves decides, and he tilts his head briefly, studying him. "It is." He tells him, even if he's loathe to be in the same line as Grindelwald. There is sense in this, and he leans forward, just a little.
"But you already know that. You know the secrets of the people around you." And sometimes, secrets are worth more than gold.
no subject
He knows Kira cares too much for that smile to be a mask, and he suspects Clint's secrets run similar to Credence's own from their conversations: that he's hurt, too, because of those that raised him, but time has healed his wounds.
"I know you don't want to go back home, not really. Or maybe you do, to help everyone, but I know you're afraid of when he will eventually get you."