Graves is quiet for a moment, his expression a careful, implacable mask of schooled neutrality. Credence speaks the truth, of course -- his assessment of Graves' state of mind touches more raw nerves than he cares to admit, and he supposes the adage is true: when you look into someone, that person looks right back at you.
He contemplates that one desire -- the promise that he'd belong, this outcast of society who had been on the fringes all his life, and yet has somehow managed to cultivate in himself an odd gentleness, a compassion underneath tricky defense mechanisms that he finds himself surprised all over again.
"Looks like you're fitting in well here." He says instead, but the boundary is set -- this is where Credence cannot cross. He shifts, reaching for the bandages. "It's time for a change pf dressing. Let me take a look."
no subject
He contemplates that one desire -- the promise that he'd belong, this outcast of society who had been on the fringes all his life, and yet has somehow managed to cultivate in himself an odd gentleness, a compassion underneath tricky defense mechanisms that he finds himself surprised all over again.
"Looks like you're fitting in well here." He says instead, but the boundary is set -- this is where Credence cannot cross. He shifts, reaching for the bandages. "It's time for a change pf dressing. Let me take a look."