sixthiterationlogs | How I wish you could see the potential;

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How I wish you could see the potential;

WHO: Credence Barebone
WHERE: Graves' House
WHEN: February 2nd
OPEN TO: Percival Graves
WARNINGS: Spoilers for Beasts, standard Credence warnings: mentions of abuse, manipulation, death, 2edgy4me stuff
STATUS: Closed

Eventually, Credence's need for questions outweighs his desire to stay at a distance. Eventually, the scratching at his skull is not from the entity he doesn't understand (though he knows the word for it now, obscurus) but from his own need for knowledge.

Percival Graves, whether or not he is the real one, has answers.

Credence debates it--he spends a solid two days before making his move. He's spent time with Graves, of course. The two circle each other, a bull and a matador, only most days he's not sure which one's which or if it's even a pertinent metaphor. Credence doesn't trust Graves and hasn't since his arrival. He's not sure Graves has ever trusted him. He's seen the way Graves looks at him. Like he's not a person, but a bomb, ready to go off at any minute.

He'd hate Graves for it, but he can't. It's the truth. Graves is being practical--whether or not he's Grindelwald. If he is, then he's waiting for a chance to use him. If he isn't, he's waiting for a chance to put him down. Credence is a lot of things, but he isn't a fool. He's been tricked once and that was enough.

He works up the courage and it takes him half a day. He double checks his chores, makes his bed three times, and when he exits the inn it's with a polite nod to people and small box clutched tightly to his chest, slipping out just after dinner. He walks under the stars and reminds himself that even though this is a house call, uninvited, not only does he have a gift but if things go awry, he also has a knife. And, for a reason he can't quite place, he's still carrying the necklace given to him by the observers. It's in his pocket, of course, and he knows it stands for something bad, but he still finds it strangely calming.

With a soft knock at Graves' door, Credence has come prepared. The moment it opens the only sign that he's more nervous than usual is how he clutches the rectangular box, gaze ever steady while staring at the other's shoes. He isn't going to get any answers if he stays quiet, he tells himself.

"I was wondering if we could talk, sir. Do you have a moment?"

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There is a power in naming the entity that scratches around inside you; putting a name to the horror makes it a little less of a stranger, just so. And so is knowing the name of the person who carries around that entity, a host through no fault of his own. Graves hasn't seen it yet, just what it is Credence can do, but the power that emanates from him is a near-palpable thing, an ill wind steeped in hate and fear, distilled with a helplessness and anger that goes beyond the written word.

Credence asks questions but gives precious little answers in turn, and Graves has been mulling over everything that's been given over, his frustration simmering just under his skin, tampered by an iron control and a powerful instinct to find a solution to the problem presented to him. Graves is not a man built for inaction, and the lack of structure that his life is now brings with it a whole set of complications.

He's up approximately three hours before dawn, seeking out things to do around his lodgings -- he must never make the mistake of believing this is home -- and for the first time in a long, long while he sets out to clean. It keeps his hands busy, his mind mulling over every possible solution as he maps out the day with care.

He goes about his day soon after, conducting investigations and making notes of his own, paying a visit to sites of interest, mentally cataloguing them. It's a few hours later that he returns, half the day gone.

Credence comes to his door after he's freshly showered and in a fresh change of clothes provided in the backpack, impeccably neat despite the mild shadow of an unshaven face, which grates on his nerves more profoundly than he would like (not a razor to be found in this damn place). He has not been expecting the young man's presence at his doorstep, and he doesn't bother trying to find out just how he knows where he lives.

He assumes precious little is secret in a place like this, and the thought of it is unsettling. He glances down at the box the boy clutches, takes in the steadfast downwards gaze as Credence addresses Graves' shoes.

"Yes." He has all the time in the world for Credence -- all that he knows, all that he is; he's the only one so far he's discovered that's from his world and his time, and beyond the threat that he presents, he sees him for the person that he is, someone struggling to emerge from his own shell; the world is slated to be unkind to people like him, but it doesn't mean Graves follows suit. He opens the door further, stepping aside to let him in. "Come in."

Edited 2017-02-09 15:46 (UTC)

Yes, Graves says, and Credence's heart flutters, his lips quirking up into not quite a smile, but a grateful facial expression nonetheless. He even spares a quick glance at Graves' face before nodding.

"Thank you," he says politely, because politeness is something that was beaten into him but also because he respects Graves. It's important to him to distinguish 'respect' and 'trust' aren't mutually exclusive--and it's important for him to remind himself that if this is the real Graves, it's because he got so far and is so important. If it's the other one, then it's a begrudging sort laced with contempt he wasn't sure he had.

It's still a mystery, but whether or not Graves is Graves--and Credence is desperately hoping he is--he can still get answers. Fully inside, Credence's gaze sweeps around the rooms. He's never left the inn, not really, asides from walks: this is a new experience for him, in a way.

"I--It's impolite to arrive without a gift, so--" He lifts the box with both hands, presenting it in a strangely ritualistic manner. "I don't know if your kind--you know, the special ones--outlawed anything like it, but the rules are different here."

In the small box, the one Tony Stark had given him, is a bottle of black bull scotch. Credence puts his hands at his sides, watching carefully.

"You don't have to come with gifts." Graves says when he receives the bottle after a few moments, looking over the label. It's No-Maj made, but he's certain the flavor would be just as potent. It's a favorite of his, whiskey, but he nods and offers him the briefest, smallest smile that is gone as quickly as it comes.

"But thank you. This is a fine bottle." Because manners are manners, and more importantly, this is quite the gift; Graves can't deny that ever since his arrival, he's been itching for a stiff drink to settle matters. His gaze, however, falls squarely on Credence at his choice of words. The special ones.

"We have them. There's Gigglewater, and then there's Firewhisky." It's subtle, but evidently, the latter is his favorite. He's headed to the kitchen, pulling out two cups and rinsing them, setting them on the counter. Uncapping it, he asks, "Do you drink?"

No, Credence wants to explain, he has to, but it's something he won't dare say out loud. He's not sure the other will understand, and he doesn't feel like giving the older man before him any kind of ammunition. He already has so much. So very much--this man is a smart man, always able to put two and two together. He rose to prominency, that's not a lie. He's very good at what he does--that's not a lie either.

Credence likes focusing on things that aren't lies. They still his rapidly beating, suddenly anxious heart.

Credence mouths the words Gigglewater and Firewhiskey, and wonders what they taste like while the other gets dishes. He thinks Gigglewater ought to be sweet, but strong, and Firewhiskey ought to have some sort of cinnamon in it. He wonders if it causes flames to burst forth from your mouth, and that thought is so absurd he finds the corners of his mouth twitching up again, a calm smile when he thinks no one can see him.

"No, sir. Drink is the devil's water," he explains with a shake of his head. Tentatively, he takes a step forward, watching the other work from the kitchen. "And against the law. At least--with us. May I ask why?"

Graves pauses for a moment at that, regarding Credence evenly. The boy is cagey today, just as wary of him as Graves is of him. It's something he expects, but there's something else to this, why he keeps being drawn to him like a moth to a flame. Graves is the only semi-familiar thing, the one with answers -- and in this regard they both have what the other needs, and he's certain Credence is aware of it as well.

What Graves needs from him are answers of a different sort; illumination as to the damage that was caused. He doesn't need to shed light on the origin of Credence's Obscurus, no -- the scars on his palms and Tina's report had been answer enough. Obscurials were created through pain and terror, and somehow Credence has managed to live twice as long as any that had been reported. It speaks to the incredible power inside of him, greater than any he's ever witnessed; and for Credence's own sake and MACUSA's, Graves needs to earn his trust.

"The devil seems to be a very convenient scapegoat for anything that the No-Majs don't understand." Graves resumes pouring. One for him, one for Credence. What goes unspoken is his disdain for that line of belief -- how many of wizardkind have they killed under that shield, how many of their own have they butchered and tortured for the same? But he's not interested in talking about that; one doesn't cry over spilled milk, one simply does better the next time around.

"Why what?"

"Maybe," Credence agrees gently. Graves' no nonsense attitude is familiar and strangely so. He'd thought it would be uncomfortable, like Mary Lou--but Graves has the same air as Stella does, and to a lesser extent, Peggy.

If he didn't know the truth, he'd probably wonder if Graves had emotion at all behind those dark eyes and stoic mask. It may be that the devil is a scapegoat, but it's what he was raised on. That stings a little.

"Why did you ask if I drank?" he says, and it seems silly to say it out loud. It's too late to take it back, though, so he dips his head and murmurs a slight apology. "I--I'm afraid I don't even know if I like alcohol."

No time like the present, apparently. And after this, after these niceties, after the etiquette that's demanded of both of them, Credence can get answers.

Credence is testing him -- whether subconsciously or otherwise, this boy is looking for answers, for proof one way or another that he isn't Grindelwald, and he vacillates between flashes of boldness and the courtesy that has presumably been beaten into him at a young age. The gentle agreement seems more habit than anything else; because Graves catches just how it stings him, just underneath the surface.

Nonetheless, Credence is testing him, and Graves is more aware than ever that he has to tell him the truth. A lie, or a whiff of one, will damage whatever fragile, tentative equilibrium they've established with each other.

And with that will go Graves' bid for answers, a young wizard's life, the potential acquisition of an asset.

"I'm curious about you. What kind of a person you are." He says at length, before he comes over and hands over the cup to him, a third of a finger's worth. No use wasting such a precious resource if Credence decides he doesn't like it. "No time like now, then."

"I'm no one," Credence says automatically in response, and it's not sad so much as a nearly dismissive tone. Every time he's thought he was something more--the promises of being special, of belonging, of soaring above and being a person instead of a thing--it hadn't gone well.

One of the last times, he killed his sisters. He has a strange sort of sympathy for his mom, too, despite everything--but he doesn't remember the way her face stared lifelessly at the ceiling having the same impact as Chastity's.

"Actually--Mr. Graves, sir, I was.." He trails off for a moment, grabbing a hold of the glass with two hands, a strangely childish move, nervous in it's execution, before he draws one hand away and continues. "I was wondering if it would be alright if I could ask you a few things. About where you're from."

I'm no one. That response lends significant insight into what he's thinking, what he believes, and Graves is quiet at that. Clearly, it's a sore spot for reasons yet unknown to him, but he's sure he'll dig it up sooner or later. Patience, especially when it comes to the elusive tangle that is Credence Barebone, is paramount.

His brows raise briefly at Credence's request, and he takes a sip of the whiskey. Rich, fruity. Not what he's used to or personally prefers, but an exceptionally fine blend nonetheless. This will do.

"It's fine. Ask away."

Graves drinks it, and Credence watches the other intently, like the way the other's adam's apple bobs up and down while he swallows will somehow unlock the mystery. It doesn't, and Credence finds himself somewhat disappointed even though he knows an intent look won't solve anything.

Instead, he curls his hand around the glass. He wonders, briefly distracted, if this would taste the same in the snowman mugs Sonny Carisi gifted him. Why did they always have to be fancy glasses?

No--if his mind wanders, he never gets answers. If he allows himself to think about stupid, trivial things, he never gets to watch Graves. He sniffs, shoulders lifting slightly, and looks up and at the other. He's getting better at eye contact.

"You call us--them--" it's confusing "--No-Maj," he observes, and wishes he had his pen and journal set to write it down.

"Can you bring people back to life?" He'll start with that.

"Non-magic people." He clarifies simply, becoming aware of the fact that he's most definitely a subject of utmost fascination for Credence; the young man is staring at him like he expects a second head to pop out of his shoulder at any second. But Graves doesn't draw attention to it, no; he imagines this must be new for him in so many ways.

It's new to Graves, too.

He meets his gaze steadily, before taking another sip. Credence doesn't try it, he notices, but perhaps he's more intent on getting his answers than having a taste of something so forbidden.

"No. We die, just like anyone else. We're just more resilient than the No-Majs. Why?"

They die, sure--Credence nods at this, and it looks like he's going to say something for a split second before he simply stares at his small amount of scotch.

They die, but they're magical. It has to mean that they can do something like revive others. They're the reason for fairy tales, aren't they? So why can't they do what they can in said myths and fables?

"I was thinking about my sister," he says, and it's quiet and soft, like if he says it in a louder voice someone might overhear. It wasn't Chastity's fault--it was his own. Her death is completely and utterly on him, and every time he sleeps he can see her lifeless body. But he's answered a question of Graves', even if it's painful. He draws the glass a little closer, and off the table. He's about to take a sip when he realizes he can still ask questions, and licks his lips.

"You--the man that was you--he had your voice, your stance, your everything. How?"

"Did he really have everything?"

Graves' question is sharp, but not at him -- his anger coiled like a powerful thing, because this is what Grindelwald stole from him (or is going to steal, same difference). Did he steal all of him, right down to the smallest detail? Of course he must, but there are things of his own, secrets and experiences and all the fragments of memories he had collected through the years that have built him into what he is now. Has he stolen that, too? The private failures and victories, the collection of memories that have only been his own.

He takes a breath; Credence is not whom he should be taking his anger and frustration out on. It's a violation on a painfully intimate scale, stealing all that he is and walking around with his face, hurting people, compromising secrets, creating bloodshed. Graves takes a few moments to get himself in order and under control, recognising the reason behind the question. His sister must have passed on somehow or another, but it's obviously painful to him. Were they that close, or had it only just been that recent?

"There are potions. Spells you can use to turn into someone else. But to completely adopt what and who they are, they need to be able to observe them very closely for a significant period of time. Even then, it's difficult."

And if Grindelwald had been watching him, this probably means he had been somewhere in MACUSA for awhile. The idea of that is chilling.

No, that question wasn't at him--that sharpness, that bark to his words, and Credence's grip on the glass tightens significantly.

He recognizes that tone. Not with the real Graves--if this is the one--but with the man who left honeyed words in his ear only to snatch them back. This time, the sharp, staccato-like tone the other has isn't because Credence is only able to beg for help. this time, it's because Credence broached a subject.

Credence's eyes never leave Graves, but his head remains slightly bowed--it leaves shadows to play along his face, lets his jaw look more prominent as he locks it, ready at a moment's notice. He will not shrink back in fear like the inn--no--he is ready to challenge him. He's summoned up the courage, even if it took him all day. He is not going to be pushed around, not with the mere tone of voice like he had been.

It dies down, though, and Credence exhales slowly as the pressure in the back of his head that had been building up without realizing it disappears as well. The thing inside him, he knows. Graves had called it something--an Obscurial--before insisting he answers questions. They'd never gotten back to it.

He turns his gaze back on the cup, the moment gone, and he decides to ask another question without really asking one.

"You called me an Obscurial. He called me--" What was it? "--a squib." 'He' had also decided he was wrong, but only when faced with smoke and ash.

Edited 2017-02-12 08:08 (UTC)

Graves can feel it, the unspoken rise of that parasite, the dark power that gathers like clouds on the horizon, a thing that will destroy anything in its path. It crackles like static, like electricity; Graves is not afraid, and its stirring brings them back to the matter at hand.

Credence doesn't shy away, Graves notes with grim satisfaction nonetheless, nor is he cowed by anger. He is a far cry from what Tina had described him as, and he wonders if the knowledge that he has of the Obscurus has strengthened him. Either way, it makes things interesting. He takes his time to answer, draining his glass before reaching for the bottle to pour more.

He looks over at the bottle, then at his glass, evidently making a decision by taking both the bottle and glass with him. He heads into the living room where two armchairs are, a coffeetable between them. He sits, but not before gesturing Credence to do the same.

The bottle sits between them, glass loosely held in Graves' fingers. He can ruminate on the consequences of Grindelwald's actions in his own time. For now, he has to work towards gaining Credence's trust. Teaching him. And with any luck Credence won't succumb to the Obscurus anytime soon.

"What you have inside you is an Obscurus. It's a dark and parasitic manifestation of the repressed energy of a magical child." And within Credence's answers lay more answers, more clues. Grindelwald didn't know what he had, couldn't sense it until --

-- until what? Until Credence had decided to show it to him? Had he always known? Graves studies him for a long moment, fascinated despite himself. Here he is, the only living Obscurial in history, the only one who lives well beyond childhood. "A squib is a non-magic child born to magical parents." He pauses. "Have you known about your powers?"

Edited 2017-02-12 08:18 (UTC)

They move, and Credence blinks slowly, remaining in his chair and craning his neck around until Graves settles. He motions him over and Credence is temporarily rooted to the spot, doing the mental math before he realizes that yes, Graves is inviting him over.

He moves his chair, a scuffling sound on the floor making him wince, and he very quickly pushes the chair back in, making sure it's flush with the table. It's less to stand on ceremony and more what's been drilled into him: he snatches the glass up, too, and joins Graves.

When he sits, it's at the very edge of the chair, as if leaning back would be some sort of crime. Laziness begets sin, Mary Lou would say, but he slouches anyway. His posture is something he's never been able to correct, despite his best efforts. Credence trains his gaze on the glass, that small amount Graves had poured but he hasn't tasted, and listens.

The word repressed is one he's heard a lot, though not from him. He knows Graves is right, he can feel it, that little scratching feeling that all but confirms it.

"Obscurial. Obscurus." They both taste strange on his tongue. He knows he's not a squib, then, though that answer is painfully obvious. Normally, he'd be uncomfortable with Graves scrutinizing gaze. Normally, he'd politely request to leave or think of something else to say or do to distract him. He's far too busy mulling this over.

He's had magic all his life. Of course he had, he knew on some level, but he hardly remembers using it at all. He remembers beatings for no reason, and maybe that's why. Maybe that's how it all happened.

Or maybe Credence just isn't good enough.

His lips part, and then he closes them, because that's a complicated question. Everything is complicated, but Graves' answer is satisfying enough to him he relaxes, at the very least, and answers truthfully. It just takes him a while:

"I don't know," he mumbles, because he's sure the other won't like what he has to say. "I--I think so. But there are some times... Ones where I'd wake up in places I never fell asleep in." Subways. Always the subways.

Credence doesn't realize his hand is shaking as the realization hits him: "That's when it would happen, isn't it? That's when I..."

That's when he killed.

"Yes." Graves says after a few moments. There is no way to soften that blow, no gentler way to go about it. Even if there were, Graves will have no patience for it, and platitudes are a luxury they both have no use for. He's killed people, and it will happen again and again until the parasite claims him for itself or if they find a way to keep it under control. Graves contemplates the wisdom of disclosing this to Credence, but decides otherwise for the moment. It will serve no purpose and incite a panic he's just not inclined to quell just yet.

Graves' gaze flickers over to Credence's trembling hand and lingers before he focuses on the young man's bowed head. His finger taps lightly, nearly soundlessly on his own glass. It's less an order than a recommendation, a way for Credence to keep himself together. "Drink."

It will give him something to do, something to focus on than the inevitable tidal wave of revelation that's practically crashing over him. Graves speaks from experience even if he doesn't put it in so many words (but he knows better; as if what's in the glass can keep the monsters in his head at bay). He takes another sip, and now it's his turn to observe Credence, to take in every iota of him, from the hunched shoulders to his slow-growing horror of what he's ostensibly done.

"The people you killed." He says finally, his mind turning to the victims, his memory of what he'd read about Obscuruses and their characteristics. Whether Graves likes what he has to say is secondary to the information that he provides; in many cases, his personal feelings on the matter is irrelevant. This case, while unprecedented in so many, many ways, is no exception. He doesn't shy away from him; this is, after all, not his fault. "Have they wronged you?"

Edited 2017-02-12 09:39 (UTC)

It does crash over him--Credence is staring at his drink, because staring at it is far better than throwing it against the wall, or any of the other number of things he wants to do. He wants to pace, he thinks, and his mind tries to numb all of the feelings currently flaring up, tries to focus on minimal things like tasks, and posture, but he keeps remembering waking up and he keeps remembering Chastity's face.

Drink, Graves had said, and Credence blinks, as if the words have just caught up with him. It's only about two swallows, and he glances at it before bringing the cup to his lips and taking a swallow.

He grimaces, and that turns into a cough, and Graves is right, he is temporarily distracted, because the liquid burns his throat and slides down to his stomach and it tastes like a cork from a bottle. He coughs a few more times, leaning back for a brief moment. He'd been unprepared, and yet, the feeling as it settles in his stomach is not unpleasant.

There's a brief moment of silence before it comes rushing back--because Graves, at the very least, doesn't lie to him. Credence knows he's killed, and Graves knows he's killed, and there isn't any point in denying it. Perhaps there's a gentler way, but Graves isn't a gentle man. Graves is a man of results.

If Credence speculates on Graves and not himself, it makes answering this question easier.

"Most. I don't think the slights that happened should warrant death, though, I--I didn't want to, Mr. Graves, not until--"

No.

No.

Credence refuses to talk about that, not now, and the moment he catches himself and the words spilling out his eyes widen and he gets as small as he can and he slams the rest of what was left in the glass. Distraction, right?

Despite the warmth he suddenly feels, his hands are still shaking, but his mind works quickly. He needs to find a polite way to get Graves to not ask about the obvious, so he lobs a question right back at him in hopes it will work. Risky, but it's not a lie.

"Your kind can erase memories," he says quickly. "Can they change them, as well?"

There it is again. Your kind. Not that Graves can blame Credence when he had been a part of the No-Majs all his life; of course this other side of the coin would still be new and alien to him. He's quiet in the wake of the young man's distress, a twinge of sympathy in his chest -- it is an impossible place to be in, and he imagines the guilt, anger, and sadness are still overwhelming forces to be reckoned with. The whiskey works more as a diversion than a balm, an intended outcome when there is no cure in sight for Credence. He is, after all a study in tragedy, and it is surely a circumstance Graves wouldn't have wished on anyone.

Graves is not a gentle man, but neither is he cruel. He will help him, because while he is aware of the sheer damage he can do, eliminating him on that potential alone seems unnecessary. And if Credence is powerful enough to live this long, perhaps he can overcome the Obscurus. What's one more unprecedented, impossible event on the heels of Credence's just as impossible existence?

"Memory modification can be done." Graves lets him steer him away for the moment; there is no point in adding to his distress just yet. "Its effectiveness depends on the wizard in question. Who are you looking to use it on?"

Myself, he wants to say, but he doesn't want to say it out loud. They are two distinct things in his mind--he wonders if Graves can read his mind.

Carefully, his gaze flicks up and at Graves, trying to study him, wild for the briefest of moments before settling on the empty glass. He purses his lips, unsure, and then shakes his head.

He'll try his best not to lie to Graves, either, but he doesn't have to answer the question. It's not explicitly give-and-take. There's no rule saying he has to answer everything and anything.

"Mr. Graves, sir? Would it be alright if I had some more?"

Because that's what it is, isn't it? A distraction. "I still have so many questions..."

Oh, but Graves decides that he wants to hear the answer. He has been indulgent of Credence's desires so far, but any further and the boy will assume he has no stipulations of his own. His gaze is steady as he pours a little more for him. Graves has an idea of the answer, but he has been wrong before. Credence is a study in elusiveness, slipping through his fingers, wild and refusing to be pinned down -- as much a wisp of smoke as he is a potentially dangerous creature. But Graves does not fear him; the boy carries wounds of his own that need mending.

"Who are you looking to use it on, Credence?" He repeats the question evenly, and the message is clear: Graves will give him what he needs, and in turn, Credence will do the same.

It's not that easy, he realizes, and he chances a shy glance at Graves before staring at the drink. It's fuller now, and if he stares at the swirling liquid he can pretend it's the bay in New York.

It's better than being forced to answer with a hard grip on his wrist. He curls into himself again, shoulders slumping. It's confrontation--firm, but enough to make him nervous. Enough to make him wary.

He takes another sip, small this time, and grimaces as it goes down his throat. It buys him just enough courage to actually speak. "I was hoping it I could use it on myself," He whispers. "Because of all of other things I did. No one knows, here. No one except Mr. Kira."

"You feel guilty." Graves observes. It's not one made out of derision or compassion, but one of near-scientific neutrality. He nurses his drink absently. Guilt is good, guilt means he's not in the making to become an uncontrollable serial killer.

It means he has a conscience, even though he seems to be bent on circumventing it. Then again, his religion seems to refine the whole notion of guilt to an art form.

Graves doesn't draw his own conclusions just yet, leaning back in his chair. Something catches at him, and he frowns.

"You told Kira about magic?"

He feels guilty. Of course he feels guilty--Credence's gaze flicks up, somewhat confused because Graves has said it out loud. Maybe he's trying to understand. Maybe he's recognised that it's a weakness for Credence, and is sniffing out more, like a shark that senses blood.

Credence takes another sip. This time, he only coughs once.

"Yes," he says softly, and then his brow furrows. "No," he changes his answer. "I don't know." he's been giving that answer a lot, mainly because it's the truth, no matter how frustrating. "He was there when I got this."

And, very slowly, he reaches into his pocket to pull the necklace out. "I told him what I did, but not how I did it. I think... I think he guessed. I'm sorry, I shouldn't said anything--I should have not said a word.""

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How I wish you could see the potential;

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