sixthiterationlogs | Angels causing accidents;

Entry tags:

Angels causing accidents;

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.

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His heart stopped?

Credence looks down at his chest, raising a scarred palm to it. Graves really had saved him--not that he was ever in doubt of it, not in the least, but this whole situation is strange. It feels surreal, and that's saying something. Since his arrival in the village things have been surreal to say the least, but this seems a little extreme.

He looks down, and for a moment it seems like he's afraid to look up before he finally tears his gaze away from his hand and his heart and over to Graves.

"Thank you," he murmurs again. "You really did save my life."

Does saving his life make up for inadvertently killing him? He doesn't know. And that wasn't that Graves either, it was the other one. He doesn't think he's ever heard his name. He's not even sure he wants to know.

"I think I'm okay," he states, and pain--pain is a tricky thing for someone like Credence. He's used to mental anguish, of course, but with physical it's a little difficult. "I don't think it hurts, or at least--I don't really feel anything."

He's already used to so much already. He glances down at his blankets again, and then at the older man. He grabs the glass of water on the bedside table and sips, lowering it before finally addressing something else:

"Did you--did you save me because you wanted to, or because of what I am?"

What a question to ask.

Then again, Credence has always been sharper than anyone gives him credit for -- it's the gift of the quiet ones, he thinks; they see more than you know. Graves studies him briefly, the pallor from the other evening that's lifted from his cheeks, and although he can't quite gauge Credence's threshold for pain just by looking at him, he's seen the severity of his condition firsthand, and even if he's helped ameliorate the effects of the lightning strike, he still must be in some degree of pain.

He doesn't look away, meeting his gaze squarely. Honesty is the name of the game here; Grindelwald has broken trust with this young man, this Obscurial in the name of personal gain and vanity using his face, and Graves will not do the same.

Mark this: this is how they differ.

"Both." He says simply. "I'm not accustomed to standing by and watching another wizard die." A beat. "There are people who believe that the community might be better served with your death. I disagree."

Credence has mixed emotions. It's evident in his face; how his shoulders stoop and he looks down at anything that isn't Graves. It's his hands, scarred and sickly pale that he concentrates on. It's easier for him to do this. It's easier for him to try to work up the courage if he doesn't meet Graves' gaze.

He's honest. That's more he can say for the other one--that this one is honest. Credence is alluring, apparently, because he's important. He doesn't feel important, he feels like a monster--a freak, lurking in the shadows, only there's a shadow inside him, too. This one acknowledges it, even if it's soft, and he feels something inside of him yield. Is it the monster, or his own consciousness?

"There was a woman, you know. Back... before I came here. She was very pretty--I think she was important. There were a lot of people that took orders from her. She told them to..." The sentence trails off, but he can't finish it. It's too much to remember; the woman ordering him to be wiped away. All of those men and women behind her raising wands, not even hesitating.

Very slowly, very cautiously, he lifts his gaze up.

"Was that because they thought I was better off dead, too?"

"The President. You've met her."

It stands to reason that she's the only one who would do that, the one person above him who commands the Aurors as well. He gleans what little he can from what Credence offers, and realizes that it's no surprise how he's distrustful; they tried to kill him.

Not that he can blame her for that; her first and foremost duty is to her people, by preserving peace using all means necessary. They have always done this, within the inner workings of their government -- you get nothing without sacrifice, and while Graves doesn't believe in Grindelwald's madness, he's not naive.

This won't go over well with Credence.

He doesn't look away from him. "You must have posed a grave threat to the city." He's heard of how Obscurii work, even if he's never witnessed them himself -- they cause untold damage, hurt people because they've been hurt themselves. Graves wonders at how powerful he must be, that the President herself had come to give the orders.

Does she know about him, that there's a viper in the nest?

"The President is charged with keeping lives of wizardkind safe." He continues, meeting his eyes but leaning forward, just a little. All his life he has met evil head on, neutralized and exterminated all kinds of threats -- but never before had one of them been Credence; a young man dealt with such a lousy hand at life, who is more victim than villain. He is owed another chance.

"But I am truly sorry that it has come to this. You were a victim, as well." A beat. "Ours is a community shaped by fear, and violence. We are hunted down, hated. A little like you." Except they were afraid of him as well.

"I would like to help you."

"The president?" Soon, Credence will stop echoing Graves like a lost child, but today he does it once more. He'd always assumed Graves was the president, or the leader, or the king--it was bad of him to make assumptions, clearly, but he holds himself with such presence Credence is positive he could merely glance and someone and they would bend to their will.

Graves is dangerous. More dangerous, Credence thinks, than the Obscurus--Obscurial?--inside him. Credence has brute force, but Graves has a silver tongue. Honeyed, but stern.

It's no wonder the man that gave him the necklace chose Graves. He wonders if the blonde thinks Graves should be honoured, the same way he explained that Credence should, too, slipping that chain around his neck.

But there are more pressing matters than how dangerous Graves is--very, incredibly, highly, all of the other synonyms he can think of--because it occurs to him, not for the first time, that Graves is unabashedly honest with him once more. He closes his eyes, taking small, quick breathes.

Of course.

When he opens them, Graves has met his eyes. He's leaning forward, too, and Credence is unnerved but not uncomfortable. He leans back, and that's out of habit alone; he's studying Graves' face, those eyes, trying to figure out if he's real and honest.

He has to be, right? He'd been before. He saved his life once.

"How?" He manages, and it's a whisper of a word, soft and almost unheard.

"By teaching you all about magic. About who we are." Graves is quiet for a moment, regarding him thoughtfully. The gears are obviously working in his mind, as if Credence is a puzzle he has yet to solve. The look in his eyes is assessing but not sly, a subtle difference in the way Graves catalogs and how Grindelwald prepares to pounce.

"I've never taught an Obscurial magic before. Certainly not one your age." But the magic is there, latent, locked away, and if the Obscurus is present, thrumming under Credence's skin, still, then the potential to produce magic is still there. The energy doesn't go away, not really -- at least until it consumes its host whole.

But what if, what if he can somehow unwind the coil of that repression? What if they can reverse the process? Just because it hasn't been done doesn't mean it's impossible, and Graves is very aware of the daunting road ahead, especially without a wand. Credence is curious now, despite the distrust, and Graves takes care not to burn that bridge.

"It will take a lot of hard work, and plenty of time. Any projection of potential result is unclear to me, but what I know is this: you are very powerful. Strong. No Obscurial has lived to your age -- but strength is nothing without the knowledge to guide it."

Credence feels analyzed--he shifts, uncomfortable in his seat, though not so uncomfortable he's not interested in the conversation. Any look assessing him makes him flinch, whether or not it's good intentioned. Credence knows Graves has good intentions, and so he tries his best not to squirm, even if it's difficult and he doesn't quite succeed. Slow, small steps is what he needs. At the moment, Graves is giving that to him in spades.

The thought of someone teaching him magic--the thought of someone as skilled, as powerful, as strong as Graves being the one to do it--he feels honoured. He feels blessed, even, the more the other talks. He finds himself leaning forward, unconsciously dropping his shoulders and unclenching his jaw. As Credence drinks in every word, trying not to let his sudden flare of hope flush his face, he nods.

Hard work. He's no stranger to hard work. He's not a stranger to time, too, and patience. And Graves says something, suddenly, that sticks out like a sore thumb.

No Obscurial has lived to your age.

"Mr. Graves? What happens to me--us? Obscurials, I mean--why did you say 'has lived to my age?' I'm only 22. That's not very old at all."

Graves intends for it to. He's playing the long game -- no lies, the truth up front and center. This is how they must work, if Credence is to trust him. Graves sees a ticking time bomb, more for Credence's own sake than others, a great affinity and gift for magic turned inward, breeding an Obscurus that has latched on. That it hasn't taken his life yet is its own form of magic, speaking to Credence's abilities, but it won't last forever.

"Obscurials don't typically live past the age of ten because of the parasite they carry." Or so he's read from the countless reports. "That you are 22 is unprecedented. Exceptional." He's quiet a moment. "I take it that's why Grindelwald had his eye on you. Tell me, how much damage did you do?"

He feels cold, suddenly. Not the numb kind, but a jagged sort of stuttering type that confuses and confounds him. He's never felt like this. It's similar to fear, the type that would happen as Mary Lou raised the belt but not after, that precipice in between where his heart leapt out of his throat. This is exactly that, and it hurts even more because he knows Graves isn't lying. He hadn't skirted around hard truths before, why start now?

Credence swallows, and his throat feels thick all of the sudden. He knows why, he has a feeling why, but he can't help but ask.

"Mr. Graves, what happens that makes Obscurials die so young?"

All pretence is wiped away: Credence wants answers and he wants them now, before all of Graves' questions are answered. There's no sense of urgency this time, no sense of anything other than the need for an answer.

Why start now, indeed.

"No one knows." Graves says after a moment. There are a whole score of competing theories, each one as likely as another -- but the truth is that no one will really know. But the truth is this, there is no Obscurial who doesn't carry more than their fair share of tragedy, of pain and fear and a hate turned inwards. "Some say it's because the Obscurus itself becomes too overwhelming for them to withstand, and it continuously saps at their life force. Others, that the Obscurial simply didn't want to continue living anymore."

He leans forward, just a little, mindful to keep the space between them. Graves doesn't break his gaze, careful and deliberate. "Obscurials have not been seen on American soil in over two hundred years. We have never had the chance to understand more about them." A beat. "But all of them are tragic figures. Bullied and forced to keep their magic a secret from a young age; ashamed and fearful of the gifts they were born with."

Graves is quiet, contemplating him for a long moment. "Do you remember any incident at all, where you could do magic?"

Credence vows to fight. He holds Graves' gaze, a tremendous effort for him, and he promises himself to survive. That's what he's done all of his life. With Ma, he'd grit his teeth and hide what he could do, even at the expense of his own memories. Here, he tried his best to adapt to the strange situations thrown at him, including the arrival of who he believes is the original Mr. Graves.

He's dead back home. He's sure of it. But here? Here will be different. Here, with Mr. Graves helping him, he won't be bullied. He won't be ashamed, or scared. Even if it's hard, he wants to find enough courage to do what he can. This village has given him a second chance, he realizes. Maybe he can make it better.

Or maybe these are thoughts far too whimsical for the eldest Barebone child, full of worthless, wasted potential and complete and utter uselessness. Credence's gaze drops, and his hands clasp in front of him.

"I'd rather not talk about it," He says quietly, remembering all too well how it had bled into something else. Something disasterous. He'd turned into a monster.

"What's inside me... I hate it. But sometimes, it's comforting. It was at first." He clenches his fists. "Is that normal?"

He's not normal. Graves had said as much - Graves doesn't have all the answers. And yet Credence digs, desperate and in need of some form of solace.

Graves has seen many things in his line of work -- in the number of years he'd been immersed in it. Terrible, wonderful, bittersweet, the awful to the mundane, and Credence is right in the middle of all of it. He can see the way the truth sinks in, an undeniable presence that wedges its way into his mind and makes its home, forcing all others to accommodate the sheer presence of it, the fact that Credence Barebone is something else entirely, something unknown and a near perfect mortality rate.

Then again, everyone dies -- all in all it's just a matter of how, and when. He studies the play of emotion on the young man's face, the set of his strong jaw, the glitter of determination in those dark eyes, the set of his generous mouth. But then something else creeps in like a shadow, an uncertainty that corrodes, and Graves can almost see the turn of his thoughts, the inevitable decline towards the familiar.

"Yes." He says finally, his words even. He could be talking about the weather, for all the inflection his voice holds. "I assume you have been isolated. No friends, even though you're legally an adult. Your adopted mother has kept you under her thumb for years." A beat. "And there it is, something shaped like your salvation. Your shield when for so many years you've had none."

It's not difficult to divine the seductive nature of power, especially for someone this isolated, this lonely. Graves can see it in his eyes -- and even if he had not been there; he's more than half sure that this is precisely how Grindelwald seduced him.

Are they talking about the Obscurus now, or Grindelwald? Nobody knows.

Credence hadn't expected this. Granted, he's not sure what he'd been expecting, but Graves' smooth voice tells him his entire life story, laying out thoughts of fear and isolation and getting it right. Graves hasn't lived it, instead he's using detective work and logic to hammer everything out, and it's not for the first time that Credence feels exposed. He's nervous, more than usual, and his hands go from being clenched to in front of him, clasped together and squeezing tightly to find some semblance of comfort.

More and more, he's sure that this man isn't the one that seduced him with promises of belonging. He wonders, dimly, if the perfect, stoic wizard in front of him has lost just as much to Grindlewald than Credence has.

Mr. Graves isn't the sort to have a lot to give up, he thinks. Mr. Graves' work concerns him first and foremost. The man who is-and-isn't him had swooped in and turned it upside down. Credence wonders if Graves has anything left--he thinks they're similar, perhaps more similar than Graves wants to admit. Both of them now have nothing in the wake of one single, solitary being. Both of them should have known better.

Now, more than ever, Credence feels closer to Graves.

"I trusted him," He admits softly. They're not talking about the Obscurus, not now, he's sure of it. "When you came here, I thought maybe you were him. Even now, sometimes, I..."

His gaze lowers. "I'm sorry for what he did to you, too."

Even now, he sometimes sees the other man in him. Credence doesn't need to finish the sentence for Graves to be aware of what he means, and the young man proves to be much more empathetic and perceptive than he lets on -- the observation of which sets Graves on edge, even if he displays none of it.

Credence is right, of course -- all that he's done is taken away, stolen by a dark wizard that Graves will give anything to execute if he ever sees him. It's a little more unpleasant when the focus is turned back on him, he prefers to set himself in the shadows, whatever he feels on the matter secondary to what he sets out to achieve. But then again, what is there to achieve in a place like this, save for a way out and back home, and forging a way forward for Credence?

The Obscurial is a threat, but he's not so much of one right now -- when he's only human, despite the extended lifespan, so very young still. He picks up on his nervousness, the innate compassion that Mary Lou hasn't actually managed to beat out of him, and he wonders just what kind of young man he would have grown up to be if his path hasn't crossed with hers.

Then again, these thoughts are foolish: here is where they are now, and here is Credence, hurt but healing and still thinking of someone else. There is a common bond now, strange and new -- the two of them who should have known better and yet, left with nothing in the wake of Grindelwald's destruction.

"I'll be fine." He says simply. What is he without his work, his purppose? He's still trying to find that out. "What did he promise you?"

A lot, Credence wants to say. He was promised the moon--he was promised everything, but above all else?

"He promised me I'd belong." That's what it comes down to. That's the bare bones of this whole thing; Credence wanted a place to call his own, a place away from fear and feeling like a pariah.

Even in the wizarding world, he's not welcome, he realizes, and feels his heart sink. It's enough that he clears his throat, suddenly very aware of where that necklace is. It's in his pocket--was in his pocket--and it may be a lie, but Credence kind of wants it now. It's a sham, a symbol of lies, but he still finds it comforting.

"Mr. Graves? I know it might not be my place, but--saying you'll be fine and actually being fine, they're two different things, sir."

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."

Credence is watching Graves like a hawk. He tries not to show it, of course, but he's fixated on two main points: Graves' brow and Graves' jaw. His posture is the same, careful and poised, and Credence knows enough to know he doesn't stiffen when he's upset.

He's never seen Graves upset, not truly, but he's sure if he did his brow would knit differently, or raise, and right now they're neutral. He's sure that his strong, broad jaw would tighten, just a little. It doesn't.

Credence is safe. It's not just Graves--Credence does this with everyone, and it's something he will do time and time again: if he steps out of line, if he knows and consciously makes that decision, he watches. Even if he's aware that Graves won't hit him; Graves won't ever hit him. Graves has been one of his closest acquaintances here. Credence finds himself considering him a friend, even if it's in a not quite traditional way.

This is not the man who slapped him, no, but he's still lived a life of constantly assessing other people's anger. This is no exception.

He's not admonished, but the line has been firmly set. Credence has crossed it, and Graves not mentioning it is all the reprimanding he needs. He bows his head, pliable, but tucks this away for later. Graves is a private man. Graves will show no fault, even if others can see it. Graves will not acknowledge it.

He wonders if it's because if he acknowledges it to others, he has to face it himself.

"I--I'm sure they're fine," he mumbles, and he retreats into himself. Not because of what he's said previously, but because a change is needed. Credence is self-conscious, an anxious mess that knows his body is just as ugly outside as it is in.

"I'd like to try to do them myself, at the very least..."

Credence is safe. He's not admonished, but Graves will not allow him past the boundary he's set. It's obvious he understands, from the way he bows in quiet acquiescence, polite and thoughtful despite his evidently callous upbringing. Or perhaps it's a product of that very upbringing itself.

Either way, it intrigues more than it should. Credence is special, of this there is no doubt -- he is dangerous and powerful, but in moments like these Graves sees so much more to him. The young man has an uncanny knack of seeing into people, reading them -- a gift honed from years on the outside looking in.

Now, however, he's right here on the inside, and Graves watches as Credence retreats into himself, anxious, and he effortlessly conjures up fresh new dressings out of thin air (at least some aspects of his magic is working), swirling into his hand and wrapping itself into a neat little roll. Credence says he would like to try to do it himself, and Graves senses why.

He's seen the scars that have nothing to do with the lightning when he undressed, dressed him and got him comfortable -- his body is not ugly, every scar tells a story, reveals to Graves the depths of his resilience, the truth of his continued survival under a loveless, unforgiving woman.

They both find their own ways to continue surviving, and Credence's self-loathing does not go unnoticed.

"I've already seen your scars." He says to him, quiet and even. It's not possible for Credence to re-dress with fresh bandages all on his own, but Graves doesn't mention it, not in so many words -- after all, there are so many ways to get to the point. "My apologies." Because emergency or not, it had been an invasion of privacy, and Graves is very aware of what it means; how this had been Credence's secret. "I had to check you for injuries."

Magic, Credence thinks, is wonderful. Out of nowhere, just like that, bandages are conjured. Credence cries out despite himself, but it's not pain, it's excitement--he's significantly distracted, eyes on the new addition to Graves' inventory, wonder etched across sharp, pale features.

And, just like that, he's snapped back to reality: Mr. Graves has apologized to him.

It's not the first time it's happened, but it's certainly still enough to throw Credence out of the loop. Wonder is replaced with a slight amount of confusion, and then he flinches, guilt washing over him. Graves isn't sorry, Credence thinks: he's apologizing because he knows it's what Credence wants to hear, and Credence feels like he's just somehow manipulated the other. He knows it's nonsense, but knowing and feeling are two distinct things.

"Please don't apologize," he says softly, because that's easier to address than Graves seeing his scars. Of course he has, the ones on his palm are very clear, and he's reminded of the man with his face that once cured wounds with a wave of his hand.

He feels like this Graves is superior to him, if only because he did most of it manually. He thinks this Graves is far superior in any way, he realizes, and that's a comforting thought. That's what drives him to eventually nod.

"I understand," he manages. Even if it sounds thick in his throat, and he's not comfortable, it's the least he can do for the older man. He's already done so much for him. He doesn't dare acknowledge that Graves has seen his scars--that's too much to handle right now--and so he very carefully, gingerly shifts towards Graves with a soft since and a bit lip, hand moving to try to help pry the bandages off. He hopes if he ignores how much he's shaking, the older man will, too.

Credence is not wrong -- that is a unique kind of manipulation too, isn't it? Graves is aware of the wonder in Credence's eyes, the excitement and delight; displacing the pain from his wounds temporarily, it seems, but it's short-lived when he senses the discomfort, as if Graves has intruded into a secret that Credence jealously guards, one that is only for himself.

He understands the feeling.

"Easy." He says quietly, taking care to help him with it. Graves is gentle, focused, peeling the bandages off slowly to prevent any more discomfort. Graves can do more -- if he had been at full power, the wounds wouldn't have been too much of a problem, but there's no crying over spilled milk now. His attention, at the moment, is centered on how Credence is shaking, the curious tremble in his fingers, but he doesn't say a word. He patiently waits, assists, until all his bandages are in a pile, now filthy.

He sets the clean roll of bandages between them, gesturing briefly, but not making a move until Credence permits. "May I?"

Credence is quiet as they fix the bandages, and silently grateful: Graves makes it a point to be patient, to let Credence help so he doesn't feel so useless, and his frustration is silent and ebbs away once the last bandage falls. Burns are different then lashes, Credence has come to realize, the pain is a little different. Not so different that he can't block most of it out, though he hisses as he moves without the aid of the bindings.

He tries to be brave. He thinks of Tina, he thinks of Stella and Peggy, and he thinks of how Graves himself wouldn't be caught shaking like this. They wouldn't shiver at the slightest touch, ashamed. They would be unafraid.

He nods, biting his lip. "Yes," He says, and it's more hushed and whispered than he wants. Graves is the first person to touch him like this--it's intimate, strangely so, far beyond the man who isn't him ghosting fingers over palms.

He squeezes his eyes, tight, and wills himself to stop.

"I'm sorry," He says after a moment. He's not even sure what he's apologising for.

He knows it hurts -- he can see it in the way Credence grimaces and struggles to hold it in. Burns are different than lashes, the pain doesn't cut nearly as deep but it hurts much more than that. Graves takes it slow even if he's firm and deliberate, his only concession to softness is the way he knits together a wordless spell to take the edge off the pain, healing magic seeping into his skin where his hand passes, cool and clean and nothing like the cloying warmth of Grindelwald's attempt.

More of the flesh begin to heal up just a little more, open wounds slowly closing up, becoming smaller. Graves is still exhausted, but he does this for him all the same, wordless and conscientious. Credence is well-behaved, quiet and pliant, and he knows that he's fighting to be brave. He knows the look so well, and Credence is a young man quite incapable of keeping his feelings locked away if you know where to look. The village has done him good, and the fact that they're so close together now doesn't escape him.

He takes care not to make it hurt more than it has to, and he looks up when he apologises.

"There's no need to be sorry." Firm, but gentle. "This is not your fault."

But protracted silence, he supposes, will only make one dwell on that snippet of a thought during the treatment, so it's only a few moments after that Graves speaks up again, low and even. "You're fortunate it was only the lightning and not a dragon that got you. Some of them can have a terribly nasty temper."

Yes, dragons. Dragons exist in their world.

Graves' hands are cool, his magic crisp, like mint toothpaste. It's a different sensation, but not at all uncomfortable. The situation itself is what's making Credence more nervous, more worried. He forces himself to try to relax--a dichotomy--and winds up feeling more ashamed than anything else.

For some reason, something he can't quite place, Graves telling him he shouldn't be sorry fills him with shame. He stoops, focusing on the ground, on anything but Graves and the strange, alien sensation of healing magic.

He sniffs, finding every time he shifts to be painful and uncomfortable even if the older man is kindly helping him, and--

--did he just--

Credence's voice is timid, as if afraid to ask, but there's that burning thirst for knowledge tapering his tone.

"Sir? Did you just say dragons?"

He did definitely say dragons.

The distraction has obviously worked, especially when Graves is still working steadily on the bandages, finally removing just about all of it and letting it pile onto the floor between them. The wounds look better than when he'd seen them before -- but it still looks relatively serious (although thankfully not life-threatening anymore), and Graves is more than pleased to feed that curiosity as long as he doesn't dwell on what's currently happening.

It's a kindness Graves will not admit to, ever.

"They exist in the magical world, great winged beasts who can be incredibly nasty. There are many types of them as well, and yes, they do all breathe fire. What do you know about them?"

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Angels causing accidents;

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