How I wish you could see the potential;

[repressings]

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?"

Comments

[repressings]

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..."

[mund]

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.

[repressings]

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."

[mund]

"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?"

[repressings]

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.""