Credence has a knife. That in and of itself isn't anything special--it's the knife Jess had made, homemade and hand-hewn, a scrap bit of metal with a wrap on it. It's is, and Credence has never really had something that's his before. Not a gift--he's had necessities, he's had clothes and a bed that belongs to him, but not something useful.
He's never had a knife. He's heard that some people name theirs, but Credence hasn't found a good name. He just knows that it's useful for his walks and makes him feel safer, thanks to Jess handing it to him the first time he's here.
He's moving swiftly down the steps, having been tidying up, when he immediately finds someone in the same white scrubs as him. He stares, midway down the steps, and quietly retreats back to his room.
When he returns, it's with a blanket. It's from his bed, ripped right off of it, but it will do. He's wearing his scrubs--the shirt, at least, layered over longjohns and overalls and hiking boots--and takes note that they're the same colour. Maybe that's why he's thinking about the knife so much.
New arrivals shouldn't excite him. They do, though, just a little--someone from a strange new world, or maybe even his own--and he approaches the other, not quite freezing to his spot but still stopping once he's at the table, not saying a word. In his hands, a blanket. He's wondering if he should let him borrow the makeshift knife, too. Just in case he goes out and doesn't look in alleyways.
He should probably say something, too, but he doesn't. He just stares at the table he's at, shuffling his feet, and holds out the blanket for the new person.
inn since riza saved him
He's never had a knife. He's heard that some people name theirs, but Credence hasn't found a good name. He just knows that it's useful for his walks and makes him feel safer, thanks to Jess handing it to him the first time he's here.
He's moving swiftly down the steps, having been tidying up, when he immediately finds someone in the same white scrubs as him. He stares, midway down the steps, and quietly retreats back to his room.
When he returns, it's with a blanket. It's from his bed, ripped right off of it, but it will do. He's wearing his scrubs--the shirt, at least, layered over longjohns and overalls and hiking boots--and takes note that they're the same colour. Maybe that's why he's thinking about the knife so much.
New arrivals shouldn't excite him. They do, though, just a little--someone from a strange new world, or maybe even his own--and he approaches the other, not quite freezing to his spot but still stopping once he's at the table, not saying a word. In his hands, a blanket. He's wondering if he should let him borrow the makeshift knife, too. Just in case he goes out and doesn't look in alleyways.
He should probably say something, too, but he doesn't. He just stares at the table he's at, shuffling his feet, and holds out the blanket for the new person.