Credence Barebone (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
repressings) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
xistentia2017-11-21 09:05 pm
repressings) wrote in xistentia2017-11-21 09:05 pm
Entry tags:
closed; drinking champagne from a paper cup is never quite the same
Characters: Credence Barebone and Percival Graves
Summary: They finally get into an old routine of sorts.
Date(s): 11/21
Warnings/Notes: Probable mention of abuse, since it's Credence
[ Things are strange. Things are always strange, it seems, and 'strange' becomes the new normal until something else comes along and uproots it. Like now. Like war, darkening what he'd thought was a haven of paradise despite the bleak reminder that the world was ending.
What did it matter, if he was dead anyway? Mr. Graves, too. They had nothing back in New York, and nothing in the Village after that, save for a few precious friends. Here, things are plentiful. You have to barter and trade and look around a bit, but it's nothing compared to foraging for berries and hoping a hunter would bring back a deer. Shortly after their arrival, Credence had ate an entire pack of marshmallows he happened to find and regretted it sorely within the next hour.
How Graves is handling it, Credence is unsure. The older man--an auror, he reminds himself, the auror--is very good at hiding his feelings, of masking his emotions. Credence can't help but wonder if it's because he's also perfectly fine with this situation or if it's because he's somehow protecting him.
Someone protecting Credence--there's a thought. One he'll never quite believe.
He ventures out when it's safe again, managing to get his hands on a bottle with liquid amber in it. It's unlabeled, but a quick uncorking and a small sip to see tells him it's definitely, without a question, alcohol. He makes a plan.
He makes a plan and waits to enact it sometime between late afternoon and early evening. It's when they'd normally talk back at the Village, and when he sees Graves sitting he springs into action. He pulls two tumblers from their place, putting them on a tray. The bottle, next, and he quietly carries it to him. ]
Mr. Graves?
[ He's a lot more confident than he sounds, he thinks, but that's something he's working on. ]
I was wondering if you'd like to join me. I think it's whiskey, or scotch?
Summary: They finally get into an old routine of sorts.
Date(s): 11/21
Warnings/Notes: Probable mention of abuse, since it's Credence
[ Things are strange. Things are always strange, it seems, and 'strange' becomes the new normal until something else comes along and uproots it. Like now. Like war, darkening what he'd thought was a haven of paradise despite the bleak reminder that the world was ending.
What did it matter, if he was dead anyway? Mr. Graves, too. They had nothing back in New York, and nothing in the Village after that, save for a few precious friends. Here, things are plentiful. You have to barter and trade and look around a bit, but it's nothing compared to foraging for berries and hoping a hunter would bring back a deer. Shortly after their arrival, Credence had ate an entire pack of marshmallows he happened to find and regretted it sorely within the next hour.
How Graves is handling it, Credence is unsure. The older man--an auror, he reminds himself, the auror--is very good at hiding his feelings, of masking his emotions. Credence can't help but wonder if it's because he's also perfectly fine with this situation or if it's because he's somehow protecting him.
Someone protecting Credence--there's a thought. One he'll never quite believe.
He ventures out when it's safe again, managing to get his hands on a bottle with liquid amber in it. It's unlabeled, but a quick uncorking and a small sip to see tells him it's definitely, without a question, alcohol. He makes a plan.
He makes a plan and waits to enact it sometime between late afternoon and early evening. It's when they'd normally talk back at the Village, and when he sees Graves sitting he springs into action. He pulls two tumblers from their place, putting them on a tray. The bottle, next, and he quietly carries it to him. ]
Mr. Graves?
[ He's a lot more confident than he sounds, he thinks, but that's something he's working on. ]
I was wondering if you'd like to join me. I think it's whiskey, or scotch?