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inviisiiblelee · 5 years

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ookay so absolutely no one asked for this post but i’ve been so unreliable lately with literally everything that i figure i can at least explain what’s been going on for the last six months or so. i know i’ve briefly touched on this to others in discord and some of this has been viewable through some of my other posts and all but, here’s a big block of text explaining why i fall in and out of tumblr, discord and everywhere else i exist online

TL;DR?: I’m depressed, anxious, & or in a panic pretty much all the time, and disability has really effed me over.

I lived in an incredibly quietly abusive home for the last fifteen years of my life. I am just now turned twenty.

when i say this, i don’t mean it in any kind of roundabout way, and it’s really only been in the last year that i realized that this is what i was living. and i will come out and say that i don’t even think my parents realized this was how they were treating me, that this was the kind of household they were building for me. and honestly, it was a way worse experience for me than it was or will be for my younger siblings (i hope).

the fact of the matter is, my biological mother was a drug addicted alcoholic, since the birth of my sister who is only two years younger than me. my mother was not a very good role model mother in really any way, and i really honestly wish i had more to offer than this basic, umbrella-like summary. but it’s so bad that i have almost no memory of what my mother was like, personally. i don’t remember her voice, her face, or any of that. she died of an overdose when i was eleven. It’s been nine years and, really, I have more memories that are worth my time remembering after the fact. i grew to hate my mother with my entire being, and her death wasn’t something i dealt with right.

even now, i haven’t dealt with it well, but i have let go of the anger that really held me back.

since that moment of my life, it seemed like an event that became who i was. i was the kid who’s mom died, i was friendless and depressed, and i acted like everything was fine, and i honestly still do. eventually, of course, things moved on --- my dad found another woman to love, who became the mother i wished i always had. of course, there was a lot of internal conflict as this happened, something that while i was never aware of it, happened no matter what i really believed. evidently, at the end of the day, losing your biological mother is something that really changes you, especially when she went by way of suicide.

my father remarried in 20...14? maybe? i really don’t remember --- my years and months really started running together in my mind, and honestly my memory has never been something to brag about when it comes to my own life. life seemed to be okay but really, there was a lot of conflict between my family and i. my father is a military man, and was heavily heavily abused as a child, and almost killed by his own mom. but he was an abusive father by way of mental and emotional abuse, especially once i entered high school. i was constantly compared to my mother, which i hated because she took her own life, and she was the worst role model of my life. my father had a habit of callling me useless, or telling me i would never amount to anything. in his mind, he was doing me a favor --- trying to make me realize i needed to change. but all he did was instill a hopelessness inside of me that he would never understand or admit to giving me or being part of.

my self esteem tanked by the time i was a sophomore in school, and my grades began to really see a dip. i was spending less time on my schooling, because i was exploring hobbies that my father didn’t approve of, which meant i was spending more time hiding the things that made me happy than i was studying. school was becoming something i didn’t like as much as i once did --- it was getting so hard to find joy in anything, and i realize now that was the major & chronic depression that i would later be diagnosed with. but all i heard from my parents at that time was that i was sick in the head --- that i would turn out dead like my own mother, a drug addict and homeless and useless. and eventually, a thought hit --- why bother?

when i was in the summer year between my sophomore and junior year of high school, the summer of 2016, i made a plan to take my own life, because i felt like such a burden.

i was not the most aware of what would work --- and i was very against going through something painful --- so i found an amalgamation of every prescription and non-prescription drug in the house. which was quite a lot. and i would siphone pills through the day, slowly, so it was less noticeable.

when my family found them, they refused to believe that i was depressed and suicidal, instead choosing to believe i was selling pills at school, peddling fake drugs (considering there were pre-natals among my stash, which, admittedly, wouldn’t have done much). instead of ever offering and following through with counseling, they asked me one time when i was fourteen and never actually put me into a place. they make the excuse now that it would not have been beneficial if i didn’t want it, but i recall several times speaking to them about getting into counseling and nothing ever coming of it.

the next two years would be a total rollercoaster. at seventeen, a predator was contacting me and trying to get photos, my location, even so much as meeting up with me. my parents put me through hell for talking to the guy --- and now i realize that whether or not i was an older female, i was still under eighteen and being taken advantage of. my principal and secretary of the school got involved, and i became more suicidal than ever. i lost friends due to the state of mind i had.

luckily, i graduated high school and turned eighteen, and this seemed to be the end of my forseeable problems. i had been working through high school, and though my family had forced me to resign from the last workplace due to workplace drama and claiming my coworkers were bad influences, I was searching for jobs and hopeful for getting into college.

i was not the perfect child at home (i rebelled against chores like any kid, and when i worked, i was even less reliable for doing chores because i was never home to cause the mess but somehow it was always my job to clean it up when i had a sister two years younger who was FULLY capable, but thats just another story tbh), but professional help has also made me see that i was not deserving of the kind of punishments my father put me through, including being lectured at about how much of a failure child i was for over three hours almost per night during the summer. i did not experiment with drugs as a high school student, i never attempted to run away or sneak out, i had a few thief instances that never recurred the way my younger sister’s instances were monthly.

in july, barely a month and a half after graduating and turning eighteen, my parents kicked me out. i had nowhere to go, no money to help me, and no amount of help from them. and yet, i managed to move into a place a few weeks after the news.

it was a huge mistake.

i had found someone on craigslist (BAD IDEA PAST ME) renting out a room in their home. they lived an hour from the nearest bus stop (an hour walking) but close to the downtown area. rent was about half of what i made in a month. and very quickly, there were problems. once i had the place found, i had no other options --- the few other places that were that cheap were no longer available, and my deadline was coming up. the place itself was pretty atrocious --- dirty and gross, BUT i was told it was being fixed over the next month and i thought if i could help out, no problems. there were cats (i was allergic, though it did eventually seem to fall out from me living there) and even a bird that was loud and annoying. the cons really outweighed any pros, but it had taken a long time to find the place, and i was not sure i would make my deadline before my parents dropped me off at a shelter. plus, i was supposed to be going to school in the next few months for college, with loans and all, and it should have been fine!

just kidding.

i moved in, met the three other roommates, and began the downward spiral. i was almost immediately out of money --- rent was far too much, and i couldn’t buy groceries afterwards. my phone bill lapsed a few times, and i never was able to finish paying off the deposit. my routine became something terrible. i only ate once a day, while at work with my free meal. and on saturday and sunday, which i didn’t work, i only ate a little bit, if one of my friends happened to give me food out of pity, or else i didn’t eat anything. i started stocking up on CLIF bars, because i could eat one and sleep the rest of the day with little issues.

i slept on the floor of the room, miserable, in a panic. the landlord (who also lived in the living room of the place but worked) was horrible. he essentially demanded that i take care of him while he was home, and expected me to just do it because he hadn’t kicked me out yet for not having the deposit paid.

eventually, i had enough. one of the other roommates, his name was Josh, was getting tired of the same treatment. and my final straw was when i found out the landlord searched through my room without asking and while i wasn’t there. so he and i got together, started looking for a place closer to town, and gave him a verbal/written notice of moving out.

however, this fell through, too. josh lost the money he had for the apartment two weeks before we were supposed to move, and so i had to scramble to find a place. i got lucky --- a really good friend of mine talked to her mom and they took me in when he couldn’t recover the money. i left josh with some of my things until i had a permanent place.

he stole half of all of my belongings, about five hundred dollars worth of miscallaneous stuff.

josh disappeared off the face of the planet, after faking his own death to me via his ex. it got wild, and i almost (and should have) took it to the police to get my things. but because his whereabouts are really unknown to me, it was going to be a way more expensive process than i was into.

around that same time, my financial aid for school fell through due to some change, and without any cosigner for a loan, i had no option but to drop out -- and still got footed for a bill of $1700. for school i couldn’t and never did attend.

the following year of this was not that bad --- my friend’s mom moved out of the house and left it to us. it was a really nice, three bed and two baths with a nice kitchen. they bought me a bed and bed frame, as i had previously been sleeping on the couch, without a mattress of any kind (Josh stole it). i was so grateful.

but after a year, too, she had gotten a boyfriend and they were talking about moving to nashville for his job (they’re there now, congrats to them!) and her mom was going to sell the house.

at this point, my family was in some contact with me again --- my mother and i had less issues than i had with my father, and she found out the situation and offered me to come back home. they were having issues with my younger sister, and i think they hoped my newfound independence could rub off. they would charge me no rent.

I agreed, a huge mistake. I know this now --- but at the time, I wanted their approval and wanted nothing more than to live with my family without problems, which is what was promised to me. They acknowledged I was an adult. This was a lie.

once back home, things were supposed to get better. or be better, rather. but it was immediate to me that it was not true --- once again, all of my decisions were being scrutinized by my family. i would work most of the day, and if i didn’t come home and socialize, i was getting long talks about being part of the “family.” i tried to accomodate all of this, and still it was not enough. if i was spending my money on anything they didn’t approve of, i was getting lectured about it. from the months of august 2018 until the end of january 2019, i was miserable, and depressed, and wanted nothing more than to die.

at the end of december, right before christmas, i finally found a counselor. my family had made it a must for me --- if i wanted to continue living there, i had to go to counseling. so i found a place and someone i began to trust. not long after, i started realizing just how bad i felt in life at home, and my counselor (agreeing for the first and last time with my family) mentioned an in-patient therapy place.

SO, in January, I went to an in-patient hospital for three weeks to undergo constant watch, and this would change my life.

the most recent big event in my life had been me breaking up with my girlfriend. some of you may know of her already, known as ruby, pretty prominent in the youtube rp fandom. she was abusive. not only to me but to others, and though i was warned, i dated her, fell in love with her, and she proceeded to make me feel bad for everything i wanted to do or did. so in the months between november and january, i was being put down by not only my family, who were still calling me useless, worthless, ignorant, and made to be my mother, my girlfriend was also making me feel bad for talking to other people, for spending time playing games and having hobbies that didn’t involve her.

when i went to this hospital, i was under watch 24/7 for three weeks. they took my vitals, watched my every move. and i was supposed to be on track for finding my weaknesses.

This experience was vital for me --- but it also broke me down.

i was suddenly feeling every emotion i ever hid from myself. i felt myself break down and instead of hiding behind the solid walls i used to have, i had nothing to defend myself with. every thought about the family that seemed to tear me down, tore me down all over again. every thought about how my exgirlfriend saw ME as abusive or neglectful for not being awake at midnight to greet her from work had me in tears and believing no one would ever love me. it felt like someone ripped out my heart and threw it down to let everyone who ever wanted to trample it, do so without a fight.

it took three weeks to come back, and i was a broken woman. i had a better knowledge about myself, how my emotions worked and what i needed to do, but i was raw to the world, and my father supposedly understood. but it was clear to me, within the next week, that this was wrong. he wasted no time continuing to tell me that i wasn’t trying hard enough, that i wasn’t putting any effort into my life. that i was content to lay around and was worthless and just like my mother.

so i left. i called someone i met while i was away, and he helped me move out that day. but my panic was non-stop. i couldn’t work the way i used to --- panic attacks were happening more often, and i was calling out more because of it. i ended up quitting out of fear of being fired, because i couldn’t get up every day anymore and go to work the way i used to.

eventually i moved again --- i found a guy i got along with really well, liked a lot. his family was very generous --- but they eventually kicked me out too. and now, i’m living with an old friend of mine, her family like my second family. but i changed --- i have a whole slew of medicines i’m supposed to take daily in order to function without panic in my daily life. debt’s come back around, and work has become harder to find. i’ve recognized that i have a disability, in the form of major and chronic depression, bipolar, and ptsd from my mother’s death and further abuse. i don’t get job responses the way i once did, and there are days where i stay in bed (on the couch where i live now) all day, panicking about the fact that i’m considered homeless, that i have no job, that i’m losing insurance soon and college is slowly slipping through my fingers. applying for disability guarantees me nothing, and marking myself as disabled, when compared to last year when i didn’t, has resulted in less interest in my resume, whch is great

i’m trying for commissions for art or writing. i’m trying to write a novel to maybe make something of myself. but i don’t know what to do.

so. if you’ve ever wondered why i don’t stick around all day like i used to, if you ever wonder why you haven’t heard from me in a week or longer, there’s why.

#tw abuse #tw suicidal thoughts #trigger warnings in general #about me

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dontyoudarestiles · 7 years

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Graves

If Graves were a kinder man, he would’ve taken the boy to hospital that day he found him adrift on the seashore. He would’ve gotten Credence a proper doctor, found him a linen-pressed bed, and been done with the whole thing.

If Graves were a less selfish man, he would’ve driven the boy down to his own office himself to fill out a missing person’s form and inquiry papers. Would’ve asked his lieutenants and old colleagues from his Dublin days about missing white boys with dark eyes, darker hair, and skin like the moon.

If Graves were a better man, he would’ve gotten on the phone with Social Protection, would’ve reported a missing, potentially underage boy found nude and trembling on the beach, would’ve reported signs of abuse.

But instead, he swoops in himself and carries the boy into his home, into his life, like he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Like he’s not purposefully making the lad dependent on him. And no, Credence has never complained, never once expressed a desire to leave, but that doesn’t mean the situation is in any shape or form okay . With a growing sense of guilt, Graves realizes more and more the many ways he’s been taking advantage. He’s imposing himself on this lovely young thing, making himself an indispensable source of comfort and shelter and love. Every kind word, every gentle caress and loving glance, is a lock clicked on the boy’s door. And Graves doesn’t even hold the keys anymore.

And even if he did, he’s come to realise that he doesn’t want the boy to leave, impossibly, selfishly. And the boy never asks, only smiles and claws out a place for himself in the vast emptiness of Graves’ life, fills up the room with brightness and silent laughter.

...

Graves goes back to work after four days. Four days of holding the sweet, lithe body close and safe, four days of chasing the boy’s lurid nightmares away, of feeling the gentle trembles calm under his patient touch, of letting the boy tuck his pale face against Percival’s throat, of spooning sweet porridge and soup into the little plush mouth.

To have to go and sit in the grey-lit station, a fat pile of paperwork lumped on his desk, and hear the grappling of petty thieves and vandals being wrestled into the holding cells is a horrid, cruel torture that sets his teeth on edge and makes him pace and snarl like a tiger in a cage.

He wants to be at home with his boy, his sweet lovely boy, tucked up nice and warm and safe within Graves’ arms. Because four days is too short a time to know someone so completely and even now Graves knows the boy was kind and gentle and sharp of mind.

He found him hiding in the bedroom once, he remembers.

Graves loves his bedroom, and so does Credence apparently. Graves can’t blame him. It’s warm and dark and just this side of small to be recognized as more cozy than cramped. There’s a large window with a soft, cushioned alcove across the room facing the bed, a little bench piled high with pillows and blankets.

Graves found Credence sat in front of the wide, bay window the third day, when he was supposed to be eating lunch. There was a frantic chirping, the loud flap of wings, and it only took Graves a few moments to realize that a little bird’s frail feet had frozen to the wrought iron frame of the window.

Graves was about to make his way forward, to do what, he doesn’t know even now, but then Credence leant in, wrapped a slim, gentle hand around the bird’s plump body, and breathed low and warm. It was such an ingenious little move that Graves stopped and stared for a moment. He watched the boy melt the ice with his hot, sweet breath, and eventually Credence pried the little feet from the metal and turned to Graves with bright, happy eyes.

Look what I did!

The bird meeped in the boy’s careful grip, and Credence turned to the window and carefully let go. There was a sharp flutter of wings, a goodbye chirrup, and the fat little body disappeared into the distance, leaving behind a fluff of feather on the windowsill and a soft smile on Credence’s lips.

Graves finds himself smiling at the memory, but blinks and Abernathy, one of his subordinates, is gaping at him like he’s seen the good lord’s face in a potato crisp.

“What exactly are you looking at, Abernathy?” Graves snaps, sharper than he’d intended, and the shrimpish man stutters out something and scampers away like a spooked mouse.

“You’re in a good mood,” Tina says over lunch a bit later. She’s skeptical, and Graves thinks irritably that she’s a better detective than Chief Inspector Picquery gives her credit for.

“What about it?” Graves mutters, the smile that had been hovering at the corners of his mouth vanishing. He’d been imagining Credence this morning, sat up on the bathroom sink, chin and jaw smeared with foaming shaving cream and giggling at the rasp of the straight-edge shaver which Graves drew ever so cautiously across his jawline. Tina’s voice was a cruel break to the memory.

“You’re never in a good mood.” Tina picks at her salad, tone factual.

“I beg your pardon,” but Graves isn’t as offended as he’d like to pretend to be. He is in a good mood. Imagining his boy waiting at home for him, fiddling around with Graves’ da’s old radio, bouncing around in his longish sleep-shirt. It makes Graves’ ribcage swell, but not painfully—warm and brimming, happy.

“Well, I’m not complaining.” Tina smirks now. “You’re less likely to go off on the secretaries when you’re getting laid.”

Graves sputters—”Is that anyway to talk to your superior, Goldstein?”—but inside he’s grinning. It’s a good day.

He’s productive despite all of the distractions, and queerly it is the thought of Credence waiting, swinging his socked feet from the kitchen bar that has Graves finishing up much more paperwork than he’d thought he’d accomplish in a day. He’s able to leave early because of it, and decides for a quick stop at one of the grocery stores, thinking about picking up more milk and eggs. But instead, he finds himself perusing a techie shop front, full to bursting of sleek television screens.

Graves has never worried much about his lack of a television. He has never put much stock in that form of entertainment, though he knows his officers adore popular dramatic programs on Friday nights and Sunday mornings, coming in on Monday chattering about who cheated on who and who was brutally murdered and such and such. But now he finds himself fretting in front of an entertainment shop when he should be grocery shopping, because Credence gets bored quite easily, bright, feline eyes going blank and dazed on some middle distance Graves can’t see.

He eventually pulls himself, and finds his way to the market. He gets what he needs and heads home, the newest TV model still sat in the shop, and he’s glad of it because when he opens the door of the house, Credence comes bounding up to him, grinning, Shakespeare’s Hamlet clutched between his fists.

The boy gestures wildly at the cover, panting, but then stops and just beams and there’s a hard, sticky lump in Graves’ throat, looking down at this sweet-eyed boy. The version he’s holding was Graves’ father’s copy, the only book the old man had ever read that was written by an Englishman.

“That was my Da’s,” he says, clearing his throat roughly, and he sees a worried expression forming on Credence’s face, darkening the smooth brow and thinning the soft lips. “Don’t worry. He would’ve liked you having it.” He would’ve liked Credence period, Graves finds himself thinking, would've liked the mystery and strange kindness of him. “I could read it aloud, if yeh’d like,” he finds himself offering for some unknown reason. He knows the boy can read and write, seen it with his own eyes, but finds he wants to do everything he can for Credence.

And it’s worth it to see the pretty, plainly joyful smile twisting those pink lips, making those dark eyes shine.

“C’mon, love. Let me put the milk away and I’ll tell you all about the Dane.”

... Queenie’s the one who tells him about the man in the bakery. Queenie’s a sweet girl, chicly curled hair and bright eyes, and she’s sharp as a knife too—one of the many reasons Jacob’s lucky to have her. So when she sees a tall, strange Nordic man showing her patrons photos of a pale-faced boy and asking after his runaway “son”, she feels a creeping suspicion curling in her gut. When Graves comes into the shop Saturday morning, searching the shelves for the lemon tarts he knows Credence likes the best, Queenie tells him all about it. “It was strange, you know,” she mutters lowly to him. “I hope it’s not true, the poor lad.” Graves' skin crawls with nerves. “What made you nervous?” he asked, tone suddenly serious and businesslike.

Queenie’s got good instincts. He remembers vividly when Siobhan O’Hare got engaged to some Dublin slicker last July. Queenie had called him a cheat, and two weeks later Siobhan’s mother had found the scrub in bed with one of the Langer girls. If Queenie thought this man was bad news, Graves was inclined to believe her. Queenie hesitates for a second. She’s the lovely type of person who doesn’t like to speak badly of people she doesn’t know, but she eventually talks, instincts winning out over courtesy. “I don’t mean to be rude or anythin’, but he was a bit weird, the man. Some sort of thick accent, tall. Well-dressed. And there was something wrong with his eyes, you know?”

“His eyes?” Graves prompted, more and more ill at ease.

“Something missing. Something—wrong. I dunno how to explain it.” Queenie fiddles with her apron, frowning at a muffin whose top is the slightest bit lopsided. “Wonder why he thinks his son would run all the way up here, middle of nowhere.” “What did the boy in the photo look like?” She shrugs. “Waifish, dark hair, pale skin.” She blinks gold-spun lashes. “He looked sad.” Spine icing up, Graves manages to calm himself enough to buy the pastries and walk home at a normal rate. He doesn’t burst out into a sprint the moment he sees the swell of his hill, but it’s a near thing. He nearly wrenches the door off its hinges, though, and Credence is startled enough to nearly fall off the living room couch. He can see the question in Credence’s face— “What’s wrong, what happened?”—but he can’t physically do anything other than crowd Credence up against the couch and just press their foreheads together. He twitches, then gives in, grabs the boy by the waist, slides his nose down Credence’s cheek to his neck, and just breathes. Graves remembers when he first found the boy washed up on the shore, cold and pale and faded. He thought the boy was a ghost, a faerie from one of the old legends, flickering on the twilight. He thought if he dared to touch him, his hand would find mist and magic. Now, he can’t think that anymore, because Credence is warm and soft and solid underneath Graves' hands and arms. The boy doesn’t tremble or whimper, only makes a soft, confused noise, a little hum in his throat that Graves can feel under his lips. He presses three quick kisses, gentle and fond, up the boy’s neck and jaw, before pulling back, cupping the boy’s cheek with a large, warm palm, can’t help himself because the boy is safe and here. Credence is flushed and confused, but pleased, smiling brightly, and Graves can’t help himself. “Sorry,” Graves whispers, and then dips in for another kiss. This time his mouth touches smooth, soft lips instead of the silk of Credence’s neck, and the boy shudders, clutching at Graves' shoulders as they trade heat and warmth, and a weight loosens in Graves' chest, unfurling into something hot and sweet and beautiful. The boy’s new at this, lips clumsy and unsure and his hands flutter in the air, hesitant to touch, but his inexperience only makes Graves growl, low and pleased in his throat. He cups the boy’s crystal-line jaw, feels the impossibly smooth skin, trails his thumbs over the arch of the jugular. There’s a quick, thrilling slide of tongue, the catch of teeth, and Graves has to pull away, panting like he's just run twelve kilometers, because if he doesn’t stop, he’ll consume . And he just wanted to hold the boy, wanted to gather the boy lovingly in his arms so the world wouldn’t be able to rip him away, and now, without planning it, he can taste the sweet on his lips, the ghost of the boy hot against his side.

“Credence,” he murmurs, and the boy looks up with limpid eyes, shy and delighted. He gives a little huff and nuzzles into Graves’ chest, arms trapped between them. He fingers Graves’ tie, pressing his swollen lips to the fabric, and Graves’ heart plays a tap dance on his third rib.

“Oh lord,” Graves murmurs, stunned. “Oh—I didn’t plan that.” He pulls away, bereft at the lack of Credence’s warmth, and his heart hurts at Credence’s soft noise of protest. “No—I—it was my fault, something happened today at the bakery.”

Credence stands there, stunned. Graves draws back, paces, rakes his hands through his hair. Credence blinks, makes a little questioning sound. What happened?

“Queenie—the baker I go to—she said a strange man had come round, asking after his son. He had a picture.” Graves can’t look at Credence, doesn’t want to see the happy light in his eyes at the news that his father’s come for him. Doesn’t want him to leave. “Is—did you run away from home, Credence?”

The boy doesn’t answer, and Graves looks up, and—

The boy’s stricken, healthy color leaching from his skin as he pales. Graves sees the tears well up silently, watches as they roll down trembling cheeks and drip off the sharp jaw and dampen the boy’s jumper, and automatically he reaches out, but the boy flinches back.

“Credence,” Graves fumbles.

Credence gets small, his shoulders hunch, and Graves wonders frantically whether the boy is going to shatter.

“Credence, please, what is it?” Graves had never wished so much that Credence could speak as he does now. He glances around frantically, finds the pad of paper and pen on the writing desk. “Please.”

The boy swallows, sniffles, but takes the paper.

Are you going to give me back?

“Back?” Graves’ mind whirls. “To—to the man?”

Credence nods, doesn’t look up.

“Remember what I said. No matter what, you’re welcome here.” Graves takes two steps forward, silently cheers when the boy doesn’t back away. He opens his arms, reaches out. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Credence. Not in my house.”

The boy lifts his chin, swipes roughly at his wet eyes, but doesn’t move yet. He scribbles something down instead.

Promise?

“Always,” Graves whispers, the tiny word in the middle of the paper cracking his heart, and the boy rushes into him, crumpling, sobbing and hiccuping loudly. “Oh, baby. Baby, I’m so sorry, I didn’t—Come here, let’s—” He picks the boy up by the soft thighs, lets the boy nuzzle into his neck in a parody of the loving embrace they had entwined in only ten minutes prior. He adjusts his grip, and then sits on the couch, the boy clinging to him, a trembling, warm mess on his lap, terrified. And this isn’t right, can’t be right. No teenager in their right mind should be so petrified at the idea of their father coming for them, no young person should sob and tremble and flinch at the very idea.

“Is that man your father, Credence? The one looking for you?” Graves whispers, and he feels the boy shake his head in the negative, curls tickling his chin. “Who is he?”

The boy shifts, finds his pen.

A bad man.

“What did he do?” Graves can feel a beast awakening in his chest, a feral animal dripping from the maw, teeth snapping and clawing at the ground. Fury makes his jaw stiff, but he’s careful to keep his grip on the boy’s waist firm, but careful. “What did he do to you, Credence?”

Credence looks up at him with dark eyes and doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even move to reach for his pen. Graves remembers vividly the dark, splotched bruises on the boy’s hips and thighs, remembers him naked and trembling on the beach.

Graves is one of the few men in the local Garda who is certified to carry a gun, and for good reason. He doesn’t like guns, never has. Has met one too many egomaniacs with god complexes because they had a finger wrapped round a factory-made trigger. He respects the power a gun has. He has never, ever felt the urge to kill someone unthreatened and unprovoked, never had any sort of temptation to threaten or degrade.

Until now.

Now, his eyes shine red and his breath gets thick and heavy in his chest. Now, he finds himself struggling to not pin Credence to the couch and blanket his weight over the boy, protective and feral as a mother bear, the world unable to pry him away from the sliver of boy he guarded. Now, he finds his own fist curling in on themselves, teeth gritting against each other, and he can see in his mind Credence’s faceless tormentor crushed and broken from Graves’ bare hands.

The only thing that jerks him out of his bloodlust is the feeling of Credence shifting closer, slim fingers sliding up to twine at the hair at the back of his neck. He pulls back a bit, just to see the boy’s face.

“You’re so beautiful,” Graves says aloud, feels his own eyes water hotly as he cups the soft, rosy cheek. “How could anyone ever hurt you?”

The boy doesn’t answer, just dips his head, holds Graves tighter, and Graves thinks about thick, clotted blood and the spatter of gunfire.

…

Credence

He can’t go back, he refuses to go back.

When Graves comes home, feral-eyed and hungry-mouthed, swoops down and presses his lips to Credence’s, Credence thinks he might swoon. He feels lost, feels stardust swoop through his veins, leave grit of glitter to ache in his chest and swell in his fingers. He clings to the man as long as he can, but then.

Then Graves retreats and he says something about a strange man, looking for Credence. And Credence knows the witch has come back for him, will take him. And he looks at Graves, looks at his uncertain face and his beautiful eyes and his darkened brow and Credence thinks he would let himself drown in the murky depths of the sea, his own home turned against him, before he gives up this lifetime with Mr Graves.

He knows it.

…

Graves

The man is taller than Graves originally expected, thick ashy hair carefully combed away from the pointed, lupine face. He’s dressed finely, sleek dark suit with a pale silver tie, but it is his eyes that draws Graves’ stare—they are flat and dull and Graves can’t help but compare them to a slow-gliding shark circling a stranded swimmer. Patient and watchful one moment, murderous and terrifying the next.

The man smiles. He has a cruel mouth. The lips look thin and soft, but the eyeteeth are wolfish, long and needle-sharp. “Yes, how may I help you?” His voice is thick and heavy, the Baltic salting the slanted vowels and clicking consonants, and Graves knows this is the man that Queenie spoke of. The bad man.

Graves takes out his badge, allows the man a look at his identification. “Inspector Percival Graves, district Garda.”

The man blinks down at the badge and says, “Ah.” He reaches out for a handshake. “Gellert, Gellert Grindelwald. May I ask why the sudden visit?”

Graves smiles tightly, keeps his grip light and unthreatening. A heavy, cold ring digs into his palm. “A few concerned folk downtown have let me know you’ve a missing son.” The lie leaves his mouth smooth as butter. “Wanted to ask if yeh wished to file an official report with the authorities.”

The eyes go flinty and sharp, and then the predator subsides. The hairs on the back of Graves’ neck stand. “It’s nothing.” The man’s dismissive, and he has some charm, Graves can see that. But it is an empty charm, empty words and empty eyes. “Just a bit of family business, I wouldn’t want to trouble any of your fine officers.” Another depthless smile.

“With all due respect, sir, if a child is in danger, it’s the Garda’s responsibility to put out a missing minor’s report,” Graves says, affecting sternness.

“Ah, yes, no it is nothing like that.” Grindelwald waves him off. “I would offer an invitation in, but I was in the middle of something just before you came. Perhaps we could have this conversation at a later date?”

Graves looks at him and his expression must’ve been extremely skeptical, because the man laughs deeply and says, “No, no, of course. You take safety very seriously here in Ireland, yes. I understand.”

He opens his room’s door, and Percival is ushered into a dim-lit sleeping/sitting area, a rumpled bed shoved in the corner, a couch shoved in its opposite. Nothing sinister or out of place, a dirtied coffee mug set out on a coaster, a wrinkled shirt hung on a hanger on the curtain rung. A pile of musty, old-spined tomes draws Graves’ eye, but he can’t make out the titles on the back, even though they glint brightly and embossed. Some sort of Cyrillic alphabet, entirely foreign to him.

Grindelwald clears a small chair and a desk off for Graves, but Graves declines to sit. “I won’t stay for long, won’t want to inconvenience yeh.”

Grindelwald smiles humorlessly. “Of course, of course.”

“If there’s any light yeh could share on the situation, maybe?” Graves prompts after a tense, awkward silence.

Grindelwald draws a quick, sharp breath, dusts off the tops of his pants. “Yes, yes. Hmm. Where to begin.” He taps his mouth with his middle finger, a habit it looks like. “To clear some things up, no, my son isn’t a minor.”

(Inside, Graves lets out a long, relieved sigh he does not want to address).

Grindelwald continues, oblivious, “He’s not missing. He’s left, after a very heated argument. Our opinions differ greatly on some things, you see, and it’s created a large rift between us.” Grindelwald moves to the kitchenette, trailing long fingers over the miniscule counter. He doesn’t seem uncomfortable, meets Graves’ gaze head on. “I am here looking for him, yes, but my son is an adult. I have no legal holding over him. I cannot force him to come home with me. But I wish to talk sense with him. To apologize, and get on with our lives.” He licks his lips, a small wet flicker, perches on a stool. “I’ve heard rumors among his friends that he’s found refuge in a little Irish town named Perth. And so here I am. Still searching.”

Graves blinks. “And you’re sure there’s nothing you want to be done in search of your son?”

Grindelwald dips his head politely. “Ah, no thank you. It is a kind offer, but a misplaced one. He will come to me when he is ready to make amends.”

Graves moves his lips in the small image of a smile. “Ah, alright. Just lettin’ you know, Perth’s a small town. Size of a shoebox, nearly. If your son was hiding here somewhere, people would know, trust me. Strangers aren’t common, not in Perth.”

“Thank you, Inspector,” Grindelwald nods. “But I’m sure he’s here. I can feel it.”

“Just one more thing, Mr Grindelwald, before I leave,” Graves says, adjusting the lapels of his coat, careful to not look the man in the eye. “Do you have a current picture? Of the boy?”

Grindelwald smiles, reaches into his pocket. He withdraws a small, battered leather wallet and flips it open. Graves cranes his neck, takes a quick peek—no credit cards, strangely, or pictures of family that he can see, just a glossy Polaroid slightly bent at the edges.

“Here,” the man reaches out, and Graves grasps it, brings it close to his eyes to see.

A pale, wane Credence, but the same age. Sunken cheeks and puffy mouth, lovely, knobby knees bared in cut-off shorts, slim arms vulnerable and bared in a black tank. He’s sitting on some sort of porch-step, and it would’ve looked like any other suburban teenager lounging in a friendly neighborhood had Graves not seen the eyes. The boy looks terrified, eyes blown and wild, mouth open the slightest bit as if he were about to yell. And there is a kind of vagueness to the whole scene, the background too cloudy, the clothes the boy’s wearing too sharp, as if the photo had been modified somehow, tampered with.

“Yes, I’m sure I’ll recognize him now,” Graves says faintly instead of any of these things, already slipping out the door. He barely manages to hand the photo back, barely manages to return Grindelwald’s unnerving smile. “I’ll—I’ll notify you if I hear anything.”

A few more smiles and thank yous and have a good days, and Graves begins to wander his way down the drive.

“Oh, before you go, officer,” Grindelwald stands in the doorway, watching as Graves stumbles his way to his patrol car. “My son’s name—it’s Credence. Credence Grindelwald.” Graves sits for a good few minutes in a grocery shop parking lot after that, an accented voice rattling in his head, I can feel it.

#gradence #credence barebone/percival graves #gradence fanfic #fic #credence barebone #a voice of naught and night

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