Angels causing accidents;

[repressings]

WHO: Credence Barebone
WHERE: The edge of the village, the inn
WHEN: 2/15
OPEN TO: OTA with a closed section for Graves
WARNINGS: severe injury via explodey lightning, mentions of Credence's history re: blacking out, talk of severe abuse in the threat with Rory
STATUS: (Is it open to new threads?)

---

ɪ. ɢʀᴀᴠᴇs ⇼ ʙᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ sʜᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ɪᴛ's ɴᴏᴛ ɪᴅᴇᴀʟ;
It's a strange sort of dance, pushing and pulling. Credence doesn't trust Graves, even if the man holds all of the answers. He hasn't lorded it from him, not yet, but he's waiting. It's a matter of time, he thinks, before Graves pulls the carpet out from under him. Soon, he will somehow turn into that blonde man, and soon, it will be too late and Credence will have to do what he wishes.

Now, though, it's peaceful. It's odd, but in the same way that the fact that speakeasies are illegal and yet there are thousands of them where he's from. A strange sort of familiar type of peculiar that lets Credence feel somewhat balanced. Despite everything, he finds the village peaceful. He finds the place safe.

Even though he should be more wary of Mr. Graves--and he is, extremely--he's walking along with him. Walks, Credence had explained to the older man softly, are the best thing to do around the village perimeters, so long as you had a knife. They clear the mind and you can either think about things or not think about anything at all.

"And Mr. Graves, if you'll let me be a little bold," he had inquired, "I think maybe if you had a walk without a purpose, you might feel better." That's how the both of them are near the village outskirts, Credence bundled in his peacoat and scarf and his wool gloves. He's relinquished his extra pair, made of fine fur, over to the older man in order to keep him warm.

They talk. It's quiet, and almost like more of their games in the evening. A question for an answer, and an answer for a question. Credence has learned that this is the best way to get information, and he's quite pleased that it's moving forward so quickly.

"If you can perform magic without a wand, then why do you need one?" He asks, and it's as he turns his head to actually look at Graves that it happens. White, hot light, and then a blazing heat surges down his spine, causing every part of his body to stiffen and spasm before he immediately drops to the ground. He doesn't know what happened.

Credence, struck by lightning, falls unconscious and stops breathing.


ɪɪ. ᴀʟʟ ⇼ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴏsᴇ ʜᴀɴᴅs ᴜᴘᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡʜᴇᴇʟ;
He wakes up with a jolt. Panic claws through him, and there's that scratching, whispering, hissing voice in the back of his head that all but confirms his initial thought: he'd passed out again.

This time, he doesn't wake up in the subway, or in his bed at NSPS headquarters--this time, it's in the inn, sides bandaged and eyes wide. A hand immediately holds his injured side--burn marks, perhaps--and he whimpers from the unexpected pain.

"I did it again," he manages, trembling. His throat is sore, hoarse, and he has no idea how long he's been out. Hours? Days? His dark eyes scan the room, wildly, and settle on whoever is there, be it passing the hallway while the door's open or sitting in the room with him:

"Is everyone safe?"


ɪɪɪ. ᴀʟʟ ⇼ ᴀʟʟ Fᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴀsᴄᴇɴsɪᴏɴs ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ɪs sᴘᴀᴄᴇ;
Credence will be recovering for a while, not just on the 15th. When he can make it upright, he'll be in the inn, closest to the fire and writing everything he can in his journal. He may even be staring at whomever's closest to him, friend or stranger, lost in thought.

Comments

III.

[putorius]

This storm was becoming a problem. Draco hadn't minded the rain, no more than he minded the mud and grime and exhaustion and lack if literally everything he'd consider life's basic necessities. He didn't even have a proper bed, and had resolved to finding the biggest house in the village to claim for himself and himself alone. Everyone else be damned. But then the lightning started, the storms growing worse, and he didn't dare set foot outside. Especially when people started to turn up injured. He didn't consider it cowardice, but rather prudence to remain indoors until this passed.

That's how he ended up near the fire that day. Curled up in a chair, properly dry for the first time since arriving, having finished his food, he'd dozed off. In a way, it reminded him of the common room of his school. When he closed his eyes, he could imagine the light as a lake-filtered green, imagine he heard familiar voices in the chatter of people who came and went. There wasn't just one floor above them, but seven. Each level for a different year, boys and girls separated. Never before had he expected to feel a pang of longing for the school, and yet in that moment he missed it more than he missed his parents. It was comfortable, familiar, and safe.

But eventually, he woke up, finding it was the dingy, shoddy interior of the inn of the village he'd been trapped in. Only there was a familiar face. Not from home, but that strange, stooped guy who'd been there at the fountain the day he'd arrived. And the guy was staring at him.

"Out with it, then!" Draco snapped, not sure what to do with this strange person.

[repressings]

Credence had been thinking. In his usual way, it had turned into blankly staring--but his gaze fell on the sleeping blonde and thoughts fluttered around him like butterflies, never quite catching them but trying anyway.

He thinks about a lot of things--about the man who is and isn't Mr. Graves, about whether or not he's true and real. He thinks about how he wishes he can just turn to ash and smoke and go up, up, up to try to escape. He thinks about the blonde with the pale face and pointed features who seems so very like the blonde he had seen while floating away in the subway that night.

He wasn't thinking that the blonde's eyes would snap open and suddenly yell, and Credence's whole body shakes as he startles, pain flickering across his face almost immediately.

He's still recovering.

"I wasn't--you were just--I'm sorry," he manages, panic swimming across his features. "I didn't mean to."

[putorius]

Something about the way Credence reacts strikes an unexpected chord in Draco's chest. There was just something about it, some shade of if that made Draco think of the way he felt when his father scolded him. When he felt the firm tap of the cane against his shoulder. His father never struck him with it, but he didn't need to when his disapproval stung deep enough.

"Didn't mean to," he sneered, mockingly. He added something, muttering under his breath, that included the word "creepy." Then with a huff of breath he added, "Didn't mean to what exactly?" As if he was trying to be patient. The question was far from tolerant, but he was exhausted and had little left in the way of emotional resources. It was an attempt at something. What, he wasn't sure.

II.

[chosenbytheocean]

Moana had been at the Inn when Credence woke up, making her way down the long hall to her room. She had heard about Credence's situation when he was placed in his bed and had been worried that he might not wake back up. It's been happening all over the village and it had happened to her five days before. She was mostly healed now, only suffering from a new scar, soreness and the occasional misfiring through her system. Moana didn't know enough to know what was wrong with her, only that she wasn't at 100% yet.

When Credence woke she stepped into his room, not really caring that she should have probably asked first.

"Yeah, you shouldn't move. Let me get you water." Moana was quick; darting down to the kitchen and then returning with a glass of water. It helped when she wasn't wearing shoes. They only got in her way. "Here, let me help you."

[repressings]

Good. good, Credence thinks, because people are safe. If he did it--if he hurt anyone--there would be more repercussions, he supposes. There would be anger. There wouldn't be Moana, pretty and kind, getting him a glass of water.

By the time she comes back up, he's at least a little more coherent. Still confused, but ready to ask questions. He takes the water with a quick thank you and a bashful 'you didn't have to,' and it's when he's drained half the glass that he speaks again.

"What happened? And--where are your shoes?"

[chosenbytheocean]

Moana looked down at her feet and wiggled her toes a bit. "In my room. I don't like wearing them." She found it easy to be honest with Credence and as silly as it might sound, she disliked wearing shoes. It felt weird and even after practicing, she'd end up tripping.

"I only wear them outside." Because it was cold.

She looked over at him, her dark eyes shining curiously. "How are you feeling? Do you need more water? Did you get hit by lightning too?"

II.

[3ofswords]

It's all been a bit too much, for a very long time coming: being in the kitchen every day, brushing unfettered and unfiltered against every person stopping in for a meal. He was exhausted before burning his hand, before losing Ren and working himself to nothing to see him put to rest. Before putting a stop to the stolen offerings at his grave, and finding the awful box, and--before this.

He hadn't been paying attention. He hadn't had the energy for him.

Kira isn't sure if he'd thought it handled in the way Credence follows Graves through the village, or if he had some idea the shadow wouldn't stand for Credence being hurt by man or creature or elements--but even after Ren, even after the second person nearly killed by the lightning, he hadn't done enough to keep track of his friend's movements. To tell him to stay inside, to make himself a reason to stay inside.

Credence was the one who had given him the cards: if he didn't try to use them to navigate dangers like this, for this boy, what was the point? Why was he even here, was the spiral his thoughts often took. After Ty, after Ren, now: why let him live, if he was so little help to the lives of others?

He's missed more than one shift in the kitchens this past week, his hand well enough to not be any excuse, but he thinks Kate understands. He's taken a bowl upstairs, resumed his seat at Credence's bedside, and sets it aside when Credence stirs with a whimper.

When he covers Credence's hand with his own in a soothing gesture, sympathetic pain flares in his own side, but he only tightens his grip. "You haven't done anything," he assures him softly; "you're the one who's been hurt."

[repressings]

Kira is touching him.

Credence's eyes widen, and he grows even more confused than he'd been previously. He hadn't realized it until now, how Kira rarely seeks physical contact. It's probably because both of them have been taught it's bad, through different negative results.

But now, a lightly scarred palm is over his heavily scarred hand, and Credence would smile if he was capable. Kira has actually reached out. Quite literally.

"Kira," He says softly, and despite everything, despite his confusion, he's happy. He's sorry this is how it happened, but he feels a rush of strength flooding through him.

Kira's here. Kira's here and people are safe. It wasn't him--not this time.

"What happened?"

[3ofswords]

In all the things he hasn't noticed, head down in his grief and self-pity, Credence dropping the mister from his name is a sudden sting. It's the kind of progress that deserves a smile, a teasing comment to test the certainty--and he's missed it entirely.

All he can do is curl his fingers carefully over Credence's palm, drawing his hand away from the wounds and holding it in both of his own. It helps something: the flare of pain becomes red roots in the dirt of his flesh, white crocus blooming through the black shirt.

"You were struck by lightning," he answers, belying the circles under his eyes by refusing to say, like Ren. "Graves came out of your room earlier, that's when I found out. You'd gone walking with him; I think he's resting." The man had looked exhausted, sweating in a way Kira hadn't seen him do before. That when he concentrated, he didn't think happened very often. It was heartening at least, to know he could care that much. "I think he's the one who bandaged you, I've just been waiting for you to wake up."

To see if he would wake up.

III

[notabirdcostume]

Sam had been doing his best to keep tabs on who was getting struck by lightning. It could be random, sure, but it could also be targets. He'd rather keep tabs on it regardless, especially since this meant people to worry about and take care of.

And, sure enough, when he found out that Credence had been struck, he'd decided it was time to make a special visit to the inn and check up on him. No one enjoyed being stuck in bed, even if they were quiet and shy as Credence seemed to be. Or at least he had been when Sam had first met him, he had a feeling the boy was starting to slowly come out of his shell.

Sam was only a little surprised to find him sitting in the main room when he arrived. He looked occupied by his journal, but Sam had no qualms about interrupting him. Of course, he'd learned not to startle him as much, so before getting too close he called out in a jovial tone, "Hey Credence. Didn't think I'd see you out of bed so soon."

He took a seat near him, setting the box he'd been carrying under his arm on the floor, "How are you feeling?"

[repressings]

Credence is much more receptive when people don't sneak up on him. He looks up, blinking over at the other's voice, and his lips curl into an almost smile. Sam. He likes Sam.

He can't tell him the truth though--why he's up so early. So quickly. It's minimal, but Graves has been trying to help him. Wandless magic only works so well, and healing is, apparently, not his specialty--and their powers are numbed down to a ridiculous amount, but it's something.

How much of that is psycho-somatic?

"Mr. Wilson," he greets softly. The pen gets set down, scarred palms folding on the top of the table. "Thank you for asking, I'm--better." Better is ambiguous, but the truth. His gaze moves to the box, and his head tilts ever so slightly.

"May I ask what you have? Is it another game?"

i am making an assumption in this post, but if you don't like it tell me

[notabirdcostume]

He knows that some people are more formal and polite than others, but honestly it does still bother him when Credence calls him that. He knows it is a loosing battle but he says anyway, "You can just call me Sam. It doesn't have to be Mr. Wilson." But he says it because it's habit and while he's trying to get Credence to change, maybe he'll end up losing the battle instead and just give in. It might just be easier to let Credence call him what he's comfortable with, either way though Sam says it in the tone of voice that makes it clear he's okay with either. There's a laugh in his voice and a smile as always.

"But that's good to hear. I figured rest would be good for what happened to you...but I honestly can't say I know a lot about lightning strikes," he replied. Which, perhaps he should have given how often he was in the air. But it had just never really occurred to him and now here he was in need of that information.

Sam looked down at the box, "Oh this? Yeah, it is a game actually. I got it back when the inn was full of gifts." He picked it up off the floor, revealing the box to have a black and white boxed pattern. He ran his hand over the surface and smiled. He was honestly pretty pleased with this gift, "Actually...if I remember right this one was technically from you," he paused and looked back up at Credence, "You know how to play chess?"

i.

[mund]

Perhaps the first and greatest mistake committed is finding any measure of safety in this village, this holding space where they are likely held hostage, terms unknown. Graves contemplates the erratic weather, wonders if it's par for the course (he has been advised it isn't quite so), and tries to feel at ease during a long, purposeless walk along with Credence, who has taken to his company daily at this time -- a routine that he welcomes.

Although, he decides at length, walking anywhere in this village without a purpose in mind is its own kind of insanity. This he keeps to himself; Credence has found it in him to share his thoughts, and Graves is not inclined to clip that newfound courage in the bud.

There is progress, minimally: Credence just a little more at ease during their conversations, even if Graves is aware that he's more than ready to spring into action at any second, to retreat if something doesn't seem entirely right, a constant reminder that his own skin isn't his own -- now shared with the memory of another.

Graves detests the very thought whenever it surfaces, and it settles underneath the skin, an itch that doesn't subside.

The gloves Credence gives him is worn, a snug fit over his hands, and he's starting to get the impression that the young man himself is, in a strange way, trying to take care of his needs. The intention behind the gesture, however, is something he cannot quite divine just yet. But they talk, conversation a flowing give and take up until the unthinkable happens.

Bright light, the acrid, overpowering smell of ozone and charred flesh, the crackle of electricity powerful in the air. Graves, stunned by the suddenness of it and knocked back by the unexpected force, gets to his feet as his mind races to make sense of all of it -- it's simple; Credence has just been struck by lightning, has sustained what looks to be severe injuries, and he's not breathing.

Graves curses under his breath. This town has claimed victims of its own, it will not claim another. It's easy enough to unbutton the coat Credence wears, to ruck up his shirt and assess the damage. His chest has thankfully not borne the worst of it, but the shock has stopped his heart. Rennervate, he commands without speaking, but the strange inhibitions of this place doesn't rouse Credence like it should. His power has been significantly dampened, and he attempts it again, focusing harder, and is rewarded by a quiet and sudden inhale, the spell a jolt to the system but not strong enough to bring him to wakefulness.

Which, considering the extent of Credence's injuries, is a blessing in disguise. Next comes the difficult part, the healing.

Graves knows a few tricks of his own, emergency first aid charms and spells for his use if he's ever caught in a dangerous bind, but his specialty doesn't lie in healing. But he does his best all the same, the village's unknown limitations on his abilities ensuring that it takes far longer, with more effort than he should normally have expended.

When the burns slowly become significantly less life-threatening (but are still present and will require care and dressings), the exhaustion of prolonged strain sets in -- and not for the first time he hates how limited he has become. It's a minute or so after that he lifts him with care, and takes him back to the inn.

He makes quick work of locating Credence's room, striding downstairs to retrieve a basin of water; and a quick rooting through of his room reveals the availability of No-Maj survival supplies, not least of which are bandages and dressings. That, and a guide book that Graves quickly scans through.

No-Maj methods of care are unfamiliar to him, but he's managed to get himself up to speed quickly enough, cleaning the wounds before dressing them, constantly monitoring Credence's breathing. He has never been more occupied, and when things look stable he finds a chair to sit in to rest.

He will need another round of charms and healing spells once Graves recovers, and he fetches food for himself, a glass of water for Credence, and two pills he's read of that are supposed to be painkillers. He sleeps in the chair, an uncomfortable thing, and manages about three, four hours before he feels better, enough to initiate the second round of healing.

This time it takes longer, but the wounds start to look a damn sight better than they had when he had brought him in, and it's mid-day when Graves finally returns to his place.

He sleeps like the dead the entire day, drained and exhausted.

It's twenty-four hours after that he wakes, and he makes his way to the inn, picking up some food on the way to Credence's room. Stepping through the door, he sets Credence's share down, going over to assess him.

"Credence?"

[repressings]

He only knows because Kira helped him fill in the blanks. He only really puts two and two together because when he wakes up, confused and woozy and in pain, and people he can call friends--and isn't that a funny word?--are there. They let him in on everything, for the most part.

This is much better, Credence thinks, then drifting in and out of consciousness. He's dealt with this far too much in far too recent memories, and sometimes when he closes his eyes he sees not his room, with the giant sunflower duvet, but instead a New York subway. His eyes always snap open after that, and he finds his skin crawling just a little more than usual.

Now, it's the afternoon--or so Credence guesses by looking out the window. He feels better, somehow--alleviated, relieved, because he didn't hurt anyone this time. He didn't even change. This was a natural phenomena. The one that killed Ren, he thinks. Credence is very, very glad he's not Ren.

"You saved me," he says, and his words are almost immediate when the doors open and he sees who it is. "Mr. Graves, you saved my life."

[mund]

Graves doesn't do gratitude all that well. His job is generally thankless, the considerable prestige of his titles combined is overshadowed by the responsibilities and the nature of his work. And so, he simply nods at that comment, setting the tray of food down before him.

Credence looks better today, even if he clearly still has quite a way to go. Graves' weariness still lingers on the edges, but he copes with it well enough; the healing had taken much out of him, more than expected. He's used these spells on his Aurors on occasions that they required it of him, but those are rare when they're competent enough on their own. Things are different here, the consequences of the use of magic twofold: the seeming limitations, and when Graves' own skills are usually just a stopgap measure until the more competent healers come around. Now, it seems, those stopgap measures have to do.

"Are you feeling better?" No need for unnecessary belaboring; it's done, and as far as Graves is concerned he has better things to talk about. "Taken the pills?"

III

[thecatinahat]

Cougar had heard about another lightning strike. He's starting to worry that there's something in this village that's drawing the strikes right to them, but he's not sure what he can do except try and keep less conductive materials around them. When he hears that Credence had been injured, he rummages through his things until he finds the remaining pop rocks, bundles them up, and begins a journey to the inn. He'll be out of candy soon, but at least he won't feel selfish about hogging it.

Easing close to him, he doesn't say anything, but he does perch on the arm of the chair a few feet away, waiting until Credence looks up and sees him, rather than interrupting.

[repressings]

He's writing down everything he can remember, and keeping certain things out. Magic, for instance, is right out. He's doing his best to collect his memories of the village, starting from the first time he crawled out of the fountain, gasping for air and help, to when the girl with the seafoam eyes rescued him, to here. Struck by lightning.

Credence is drawing the symbol when he looks up, seeing Cougar. He smiles--or gives his version of a smile, which isn't one at all, and is pleased that he hadn't snuck up on him.

"Mr. Carlos," he says cordially, and motions with his chin to sit. "Hello." He still doesn't know any other name to call him by, after all, so he's fairly certain he's not being rude. "Would you like to sit?"

[thecatinahat]

Cougar remains where he is on the arm of the chair, but he unearths the bag of pop rocks from his pocket and sets his hat down on the chair. Giving the bag a little shake, he hands it over to Credence, trying not to let the memories of the helicopter into his vision. Credence is young, one of the younger people here, and matched up with the lightning, it had made him scared.

Scared that he was going to lose someone else and couldn't do anything about it. Being here, seeing him with his own two eyes, it helps. "Gift," is all he says, settling it in Credence's hand and closing his fingers over it.

II

[oncewasroman]

Rory did not regret making it known that he was a nurse to the majority of the population here. What he didn't enjoy was the fact that only a few months after arriving and then only a week or so after getting the hospital clean he gets flooded with cases of lightning strikes. Lightning strikes! And not just one or two -- but it almost seemed like an epidemic...except of course such a thing wasn't contagious.

Or was it?

Rory decided he best not go down that road unless he had stronger evidence. For the moment he'd stick to what he was trained in, which wasn't detective work, but nursing. He was just glad he'd actually received a package that could be a little helpful. The really bad part is he'd had a hard time pulling himself away from Amy's side. She'd been hit too after all and he tended to put his status as "husband" above his status as "nurse."

However, he also knew that abandoning everyone to the lightning wasn't going to sit well with him. So, once Amy was asleep he slipped out to go check on one of the latest victims, which was how he wound up sitting at Credence's bedside. His timing was actually pretty good for once and he managed to take Credence's pulse just moments before the younger man woke up thrashing. Rory was out of reach though and waited for him to settle again. It looked like he was going to wake up this time too, which was reassuring. He debated asking about what he meant by "again" but decided to focus on the question instead.

"What do you mean by that? As far as I know you were the only one hit by lightning...today at least."

[repressings]

Credence's brows knit, confused but calmer than usual. It's something about his voice--not quite soothing but not quite authoritative. A mixture, perhaps, of both. He's lulled. That, and it doesn't take long to put two and two together, as fuzzy as his memory is.

Graves had patched him up, if only minimally, but he's not familiar with things like this. No, it had to be this one who did the work--he sees him, sometimes, but never for very long. He doesn't think they've spoken to each other, and yet here he is, waiting by his side, for him to wake up.

He feels a stab of something, and realizes it's gratefulness.

Credence is probably recovering just a little quicker than he should, and that is the dulled properties of whatever magic Mr. Graves could perform on him. It still leaves him in pain and in desperate need of this one's help, the one with the reassuring smile.

"I don't know," He says, and it's as close to a lie as he can get. It's fine. Everyone is safe, but him. "Lightning, like what happened to Mr. Ren?"

[oncewasroman]

It takes Rory a moment to recall that 'Ren' was the name of one of the first victims. The difference here was that Mr. Ren had died from his encounter with lightning. Rory hadn't really known him and hadn't seen the body -- it had been too late for that.

"Not quite," Rory finally said, "You're going to make it through your brush with electricity." The implication of course being that Ren hadn't fared so luckily. "Your pulse is steady at least, though perhaps a little fast. I haven't had a chance to check for burns or anything yet." He didn't want to do that while the younger man had been unconscious. "Can you tell me anything about what happened? Do you remember?"

III

[ottimismo]

Sonny has had more than enough lightning to last him a lifetime, honestly. It never struck him as something to fear, really. Of course, it's a dangerous thing, pure energy that can wreck havoc wherever it lands. But he spent nights sitting on his front porch with his sisters and his mother, watching lightning storms crack brightly across the sky. To him, it's only ever been something beautiful to enjoy. He never had to worry about being hit by it.

But now the lightning won't let up. It caught Ravi's house, which Sonny aided in putting out. It's injured plenty of people, including Credence, Sonny's heard. And it's killed someone. Sonny's used to dealing with danger, but that's danger that comes from people. Not danger that comes from Mother Nature herself.

The first days afterwards, Sonny doesn't visit Credence in his room. There's a steady stream of people going in and out, it seems, friends closer to him than Sonny is, and that's how it should be. It's a few days later that he comes to the Inn and sees Credence out of his room and sitting by the fire, scribbling away in a journal. Sonny disappears into the kitchen, and with some supplies brought from his own home and others borrowed from the pantry, he whips up what he considers a sorry excuse for some Italian herb biscuits, with a bit of white peppered gravy to go with it. With that on a platter, he fetches a game of Jenga from where some entertainment items are stored at the inn, and goes to where Credence is sitting.

"Hey buddy, I heard what happened." He sits in the chair opposite of Credence without invitation, setting the platter of biscuits and gravy between them, gesturing to it so Credence knows it's free to eat. The game rests in his lap and Sonny smiles, asking, "How're you holding up?"

[repressings]

Credence hasn't noticed Sonny at all until he says something, and then the plate is set there and some other box is set in front of him and Sonny, without a worry in the world, plops down like he's Kira.

You can take the guy out of Coney Island, it seems, but New York is always going to be a part of him. Credence's lips twitch into an almost semblance of a smile, barely there, and he realizes how much he misses Sonny.

That name is apt for the man, with his rich smile and kind personality. Credence slowly takes the book away from the table, shielding it with scarred hands.

"I didn't mean to cause so much trouble," He apologizes, "but thank you. What's--What's this?"

He'd be lying if he said he didn't eye it hungrily.

iii.

[ex_assertiveness90]

Stella herself has been fortunate enough to avoid the lightning strikes, though she knows others were not quite so lucky. There was a death, earlier this month, something that she would have termed a freak accident if not for some things she'd heard about what had been found at the scene.

She's beginning to think there isn't much that happens around here that can be called accidental, and that concerns her.

Credence is another of the unfortunate victims, but he'd survived, and while she hadn't got a chance to visit him while he'd initially been recovering, it's good to see him sitting upright in front of the fire, even if he can't manage a lot more than that yet.

He's writing in the journal that she gave him for Christmas — in a sense, anyway — and a very slight smile pulls at one corner of her mouth as she recognizes it. She walks over, trying to approach from an angle at which he can see her so she doesn't startle him, and sits down in a nearby chair.

"Does it help you?" she asks. "Writing things down."

It helps her, in several ways, and she supposes that might have been the point of the gift.

[repressings]

He sees her first, and Credence doesn't realize how clever a move that is. He doesn't jump, nerves always frayed but slowly mending, and the familiar blond taking a spot only makes him smile. Even if his smile is still a scattered, worried thing that never quite reaches a full grin.

"I heard from someone that maybe they could alter memories, and after this..." He trails off. After he knows that the observers are not above physically hurting them as well, he wants to be prepared for anything.

His handwriting is incredibly neat, right handed and cursive. He hasn't had proper schooling, but he's learned from Mary Lou. His adoptive mother had always been a strict teacher.

"I thought maybe if I wrote everything down, if I got confused, it could help me." He pauses, glancing down at his notes. "You gave me this, didn't you? At Christmas."