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

[mund]

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."

[repressings]

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..."

[mund]

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."

[repressings]

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.

[mund]

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?"

[repressings]

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.

[mund]

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.

[repressings]

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?"

[mund]

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?"