The whole world, and him in it. He would have thought that meant nothing to him now. On some days, it didn’t. What was the world to him? Holy books said it was a darksom house of mortal clay, that it meant nothing, and to think so was folly. His own judgement showed that it cared so little for him, and so why was it on him to help it? And yet, if one person thinks he’s worth the effort, if one man thinks this ragged boy of skin and bone and frayed nerves, is able to do good, he knows he won’t be able to refuse. Even if by one man alone, he’d give anything to see what he’s been told refuted.
Graves’ tension is visible, jaw clenched, shoulders stiff and armored. Credence’s body responds for him, shrinking back; his own shoulders are pulled upward, and like a tree in the wind, he sways back and away. His head is, as always, kept down. Make yourself shorter, remain small. That’s been all he’s ever known to do when someone’s gone stiff, when frustration tints the air. It’s only a few seconds after that he hates himself for it; for curling in on himself for fear of the one person not an object of fear to him.
“ What’s a balanced exchange here? ” He can’t fathom what could possibly be so difficult to match him in worth to his family. If he had to estimate it, he’d be worth a few clean bowls, and perhaps a twenty dollar bill. That was being generous. “ Least favorite children tend not to fetch a high price. ”
But of course, it’s concern. He tells himself, as the words fall, that’s what he must have meant in all that. Graves’ hand on his wrist makes him shiver, and his eyes lift at last, like a man freed from a cave finally braving the sun.
He follows that feather-light brush on his wrist, lets it guide his hands from his pockets. His heart is still doing flips from that single brush alone. He swears, it’s too sweet to be real.
“ Thank you. ” He wants to say you don’t have to keep helping me, but he wouldn’t dare spit in the face of kindness. He wants to say I don’t deserve it, but he’s aware that’s for Graves to decide. So he obeys, breath hitching in his throat when they touch.
“ I won’t question you again. I just fail to see a point, sometimes. ” In more than simply staying, too. Sometimes, existence itself seems some elaborate act he performs mostly out of habit, partially because he’s been told to.
credence has been, and been, and been, straitjacketed in the compact wound of his living condition, ugly with black grief --- his grotesque theory of worth doesn’t stun graves; that enamel ground away on instinct much inexperience ago. what it does in the bricked windflute of the alley, despite it, is sound notorious like a sickness. it’s easy to derive who’d taught him that stanza.
it’s at least as simple to picture her dead.
doubt is a career-ingrown vertebra the majority of graves’ outer circle forcibly don’t brace on, to court his badge; not being questioned he’s used to. not seeing a point he’s not quite.
talking to credence is soft and sticky. graves navigates it as it is: a vein he’s never been before, for all his submergences under people’s skins. sometimes he treads the gush --- sometimes he’s quicksand-wry.
❝—no, it’s alright… to ask questions. i understand you have a few of those.❞
he’s curious how many he’ll be able to give a clean answer to.
graves undoes credence’s fingers into a recipient’s against his own pulse points, aiming them into his sleeves. both of his middle fingers take on a backbone’s curve against the flesh of what he’s handling. it... surprises him. he needs to look twice the time of too long. it itches that his unsharp scour doesn’t compute the details recallably to his skill; that he may as well have found a matter plucked from a next-door universe he can’t yet place but ought to.
there are no natural wrinkles left, but he’s held far worse. the grains texture as darkly as half-alive meat through the ajar mouths of unknitted, reaching skin, but he’s seen worse still, on these very hands, whether live or in the afternoon substitute of his mind on the shrunk days he’d be required in-field indefinitely.
for just one blink, the edges of graves’ thumbpads seem softly red. he peels away the feeling but not the visual proof. mary lou barebone is looking at him from credence’s palms. from among the crusts.
❝but not yet. are you hungry?❞
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