Cass takes the arm back from AJ, hugging it tight for a moment before carefully - like a sacred relic - handing it back to Bucky. He reattaches it, rolling his shoulder to lock the mechanisms in place. Sensation returns, a prickle of feeling up his arm and spine that makes him shiver. As soon as it's in place, Cass launches himself at Bucky, scrawny little-boy arms thrown around Bucky’s broad chest, head burrowed in the space just above his heart. Plastic frames click against metal tags through the thin cotton of Bucky’s shirt, and it’s a nice sound.

Not to be outdone, AJ bounces from his seat and joins his brother in the hug. And fuck, it could shake Bucky to his very core. He wraps them both up, right arm and left, holding them close and right. Giving himself the permission to be seen, he nuzzles their soft curls and inhales their shampoo and kisses their foreheads, one by one. Tears sting, and one even falls. “Love you, Uncle Bucky,” AJ says, pulling away. His smile is as bright as the Louisiana sun.  “Thanks for showing us your arm.” “Love you two, little guy. Love you both,” Bucky whispers, “So much.” So much it hurts. And next time he looks at his arm, when the glint of glossy black and dull gold catch his eye and frightens him, he think of their faces. He thinks of his adopted nephews, grinning in the kitchen on a mild autumn afternoon, asking about his arm.  They aren’t afraid of it. Sure, they don’t know the wanton destruction that’s been done with this arm (and the one before that), but even if they did he doesn’t think they’d let it change their minds (at least he hopes they wouldn't). I love you, Uncle Bucky, AJ’d said. Thanks for showing us your arm.

PROMPT I'll go the overused trope way and say - coffee shop au?? Coffee shop owner Graves and customer queenie... Oooor coffee shop owner Queenie and Graves who pines helplessly from his table. Graves wearing glasses who stutters and generally makes a fool of himself each time she comes near his table. Graves the businessman who should be ace at this dating thing but really loses the ability to can around her and still comes every day to see her. Queenie finds him adorable. ___ 

“You’re ridiculous.” Graves glares at Credence from behind his sunglasses while they make the seven minute mad dash back to the office before the meeting starts. He almost regrets asking Credence to come along with him to get coffee for everyone – until he eyes the eight drinks Credence expertly balances in two takeaway cup trays. Then Percival remembers why he did it, and it wasn’t so his intern turned secretary could badmouth him while jogging across a busy crosswalk in downtown New York and make it look like a leisurely stroll. Those long legs eat up the ground, leaving Graves all but scrambling in his wake. “I am not,” he grouses. Graves cuts the curb and hops up onto the sidewalk again, matching Credence for stride again as they veer onto Wall Street. The younger man scoffs, throwing his head back. He nearly whacks a passing lady with his elbow and Graves winces at the prospect of hot coffee scalding anyone. He really doesn’t need any more attention right now. “But you are! All she asked you for was your name!” How was it that a man could be so quiet and yet so bubbly and outgoing at the same time? Sometimes observing Credence is like watching one of those ancient actors put on the drama and tragedy masks over and over and over again. It makes his head spin. But it also gives Graves a welcome reprieve from the embarrassment still burning in his cheeks and the tips of his ears. He had been ridiculous, hadn’t he? “She caught me off guard,” Graves parries, “I was reading an email.” He’s pretty sure Credence rolls his eyes behind the sunglasses Graves bought him last summer. But Graves says nothing because they’ve arrived at their building and its trial enough to get the door open and cram themselves into the beehive of a lobby without spilling anything or upsetting anyone. They can return to the witty banter later.

---

“Newt says that guy came in again today?” Queenie startles out of her thoughts to her sister’s voice. She realizes she’s been rubbing the same spot on the counter for the last three minutes and whatever sticky substance clinging to the surface is now long gone. She flushes all the same, whether at the memory or at Tina’s knowing smirk, she couldn’t tell you.

“What if he did?” Queenie finishes wiping down the counter and goes to the sink to rinse the cloth. It’s easier to talk to Tina with her back to her. Queenie’s usually the one who’s good at reading people, but to Tina, Queenie is an open book. “Did he finally say anything today, or did he just keep staring at you?” “He does not stare!” Queenie protests. Okay, he does stare, but it isn’t the creepy leery stare of gross old men and perverts. He looks a little besotted, if she says so herself, which makes the very bottom of her tummy tremble and twist with pangs of excitement. Tina rolls her eyes, not that Queenie can see, and leans against the counter. “Did he say anything at least?” “His name is Graves.” Tina snorts, “Fitting.”

---

He comes in every day and always orders the same thing. The time varies, the first time Queenie met him, it was just past opening and he’d strolled in without a care in the world, hands in the pockets of his impeccable suit trousers and the easy-bored expression of a businessman. He practically reeked of money and status – not that his cologne was overpowering – but it was stitched into the seams of his jacket, the grace of his stride, the way he surveyed Queenie’s little café and bakery. It all went away the moment he saw her. The presence he carried, the confidence, was wiped clean in the milliseconds it took him to spot her and process her. In a secret Queenie fiercely guards, she’d watched his mouth drop open just a little bit. It still makes her heart race, all these weeks later.

When you’re small, your parents tell you a lot of things – sit down, stand up, don’t talk back or take candy from strangers. Newt knows all these things and a fair bit more. He knows he isn’t supposed to talk to muggles – people without magic – and that he’s not supposed to do magic without Mama or Papa or Theseus present. And he knows – he knows, he knows, he knows he isn’t supposed to go out beyond the garden at night. Mama said. Papa said. Theseus said. It’s dangerous, they said, you could get lost. Or hurt. Or Worse.

And most of the time Newt is a good boy and he listens. Besides, there’s so much to explore in the gardens and the grounds of the estate. There are hippogriffs to visit and foals to play with and doxies to watch flit in and amongst Mama’s flowers. And at night, the little lantern bugs come out too, buzzing merrily along like tiny light houses, just specks. Newt loves the lantern bugs. He likes to sit and watch them bop about, their bums glowing softly in the falling night. That’s what he’s doing tonight, curled up beneath the great oak near the house, his knees drawn up to his chest and arms wrapped around them. Despite the occasional whine of a mosquito close by, he sits undisturbed, clear blue eyes unheeded by the mop of auburn-brown curls falling into them. The little lights flit and float and dance in the purple-blue-black. Beyond, Newt can just barely make out the silhouette of the great trunks that stand sentry at the edge of the forest.

He is especially not supposed to go out there at night. There’s some places in the woods where the ground looks solid but it isn’t. Theseus called it peat, said that if something fell into it, it was gone forever. Even whole people, magical ones too, had been swallowed up after falling into the goop. Worse than quicksand, Papa had muttered into his coffee. Newt is alwaysto stay on the paths in the forest, but it’s hard to see them in the dark, and so he is not to go out there at night.

Suddenly something catches the boy’s attention. It isn’t a lantern bug, it’s too big and not the right colour. Newt’s gaze flashes to it, but it’s gone almost as soon as his eyes move. He blinks in confusion, wondering if the dark is playing tricks on him, and shakes his little head. A mosquito buzzes by his ear and he reaches up to swat at it, shaking his head again to be rid of the pest. Just then, the light reappears, hovering at the fringe of the forest. It’s like before, there and then gone fractions of a second later, but Newt knowsthat he’s seen it this time, that it’s not just a trick of his imagination. It’s almost like an orb, ice-blue in colour but tattered at the edges – more of a mist than a true light but illuminated nonetheless. And it lurked amongst the thick trunks of the trees, just hovering before disappearing. Newt strains his eyes, trying to catch sight of it again, and for a moment there is nothing before – there! Further from the edge this time, the light reappears, flickering and then vanishes. Newt pushes himself upright, eager to investigate. Slowly, little booted feet cross the lush, dewy grass and with every step the faint strains of the party going on inside the Manor House fade away into a hush. Newt pays this no mind though, too focused on the little, faint light. Every time he gets closer, it leaves, only to come again farther away from him. “Wait, don’t go!” Without thinking, he crosses the boundary into the forest. The wards that guard the property melt around him, shuddering as if uneasy. Newt pays this no mind either, too little and inexperienced to understand the way the magic caresses around him as if pleading don’t go, don’t go. He doesn’t understand the poison seeping through them either, the way they’ve been weakened by something old and dark and very powerful. He’s only eight, he doesn’t know about any of this - he hasn’t been told about it at all. So Newt follows, deeper and deeper towards the heart of the forest, past ancient trunks thicker than he is tall and weeping shrubs which shiver like a breeze is passing through them. But there is no wind, or noise. A wary silence hangs over the forest, like a crowd before the executioner’s axe comes down.

“Wait! Come back!” Frustration wells in Newt’s belly, climbing its way up into his throat. Why won’t the light stay? Doesn’t it want to be his friend? It keeps running and running, allowing him close enough to reach out and touch but never hanging around long enough to let him. Newt’s heart beats fast and his legs pump, working hard to keep him going forward. He runs with his hand outstretched, chubby fingers grasping. If only he could just– if only it would just stay still. So focused on the wisp of light, Newt doesn’t notice the thick root protruding out of the ground. It’s too dark to see it properly anyways, he’s been using the wisp as his source of light for what feels like ages now. Darkness has fully fallen, and with the canopy so thick and old no moon nor starts can penetrate to the ground. So Newt trips, foot catching and he goes sprawling off the path. “Oof!” Newt lands in a heap some feet away from the path, amongst the underbrush and the hedges with their scratchy branches, but hopefully no poison Ivy. Newt lays there for a moment, his chest aching and refusing to rise when he tells it to. It takes a couple tries to get his breath back, but when he does, Newt can sit up and takes stock. He realizes that he doesn’t know where he is. Not at all. Everything looks so different at night, once friendly trees in the distance now ghostly spectres looming out of the dark. Newt shudders and rubs at his arms. It’s cold, damp seeping into his shorts and through his socks from the wet earth. It’s quiet, too, so quiet Newt can hear his own heart beating. No birds call, no insects hum, no animals rustle or whistle or move about. It’s as if all life has ceased.

A chill very much like fear runs up Newt’s spine. He tries to push it down, twisting his body and straining to find anything in the dark, anything that looks familiar. But it’s so dark, so very dark. Newt whimpers and twists his body round the other way, still searching. His gaze passes over something before he pauses and goes back to it, more chills wracking his body. Someone stands a few hundred yards away, just an outline in black against the slightly lighter shade of a tree trunk. Newt’s eyes pick up on its movement more than its colour, that’s how he’s able to distinguish it. Then a wisp appears, brighter and more corporeal than all the others had been. It hovers in what must be the figure’s hand, just above the skin. “Theseus!” Newt calls out uncertainly. He pushes himself to his feet, taking the first few steps on legs like a fawn’s before finding his stride and balance. He makes for the figure, heart in his throat and going a million miles a second. Tears sting his eyes, driven there by the fear slowly moving through him like ice going down a river. “Theseus! This isn’t funny! It’s not! If you don’t come out right now I’m going to tell Mummy!”

Except he gets no reply. Newt swallows around the lump in his throat, trying to ignore how the silence that follows his proclamation feels weighted and uneasy. In a thin, unsteady voice on the verge of tears, Newt calls out again, “I swear! I shall tell Mummy and Daddy and you will be very sorry!” Oh how he wishes he were eleven and at Hogwarts so he could hex Theseus to heck and back for this. Newt keeps advancing on the silhouette, anger and fear mixing a heady cocktail in his blood. He keeps going and going, paying no mind to the ground underneath his feet. Keeps going and threatening and trying not to cry and going and then… His shriek cuts off with a loud plop. Something grabs him from behind, two large hands wrapping around the boy’s slender chest and hauling him physically upright. In the movement, Newt kicks out in surprise and his boot, knocked loose by his fall, goes flying into the space between the boy and the figure. It lands and immediately sinks down into the ground, never to be seen again. Newt cries out in shock. “What are you doing out here?” A voice hisses, something like fear in its tone. The hands on Newt’s back twist him around, the world blurring in deep purples and blacks for a moment before Newt is face to face with someone he’s never seen before. He squeaks again in fright. It’s a man holding him, with dark eyes and very dark hair, as dark as a raven’s wing. His skin is so pale it’s almost white like bone, which makes his eyes stand out even more. They are so very dark – so very, very dark – and then Newt realizes he has no iris, only pupil. When Newt tries to scream this time, one of those big hands claps around Newt’s mouth, skin salty where it accidentally presses between Newt’s open lips and touches his tongue. 

“It’s me,” the man whispers, “Newton, it’s me. Percival. You remember me, don’t you?” It does look a little bit like Percival, Theseus’s American friend. But Percival’s eyes are brown, not black, and his ears aren’t pointed and his eye teeth aren’t fangs like those of a big cat. Theseus’s Percival looks like a person, not a monster come to gobble Newt up. So Newt shakes his head and tries to stop his body from trembling along with it. The-thing-that-looks-like-Percival rolls its big, black eyes in bemusement. “Well, it’s me,” the thing says unhelpfully, bushy black brows canting low over his eyes. He regards Newt for a second longer before seeming to realize the child can’t talk, and removes his hand. “I-if you’re Percival… w-why do you look so funny?” Mummy would scold Newt for asking that question, but the-thing-that-looks-like-Percival just laughs, short and sharp like a bark, without a mean edge to it. He sets Newt back down on the path and crouches so he can look the boy in the eye. Those pupil-less expanses frighten Newt a bit, but he tries not to flinch away. “Surely a smart boy like you knows who the Fae are.” Newt does know who the Fae are. Mummy sometimes tells him stories just as he’s falling asleep, about a beautiful young Fae who fell in love with a human man, a Muggle. But Newt has never seen a Fae. “You don’t look like this all the time,” Newt says, a little petulant. Percival laughs again, showing those sharp teeth that are scarier than he probably intends. “And you still haven’t answered my question. What the hell are you doing out here? I thought Theseus said you weren’t supposed to go into the forest at night, especially not alone.” An admonishment and the mention of Theseus, combined with Newt’s lingering fear and the knowledge that he is going to be in somuch trouble when he gets home sparks the powder keg of emotions welling up inside him. Despite his best efforts, hot and fat tears begin to fall from his lashes. The-thing-that-looks-like-Percival makes a groaning sound, it’s eyebrows sinking impossibly lower when Newt’s lip trembles. He lifts Newt up off the ground and cuddles him into his chest. It certainly smells like Percival – that warm, clean scent with just a hint of tobacco or something around the edges – and it’s comforting. Without thinking, Newt nuzzles his face into the collar of the-thing-that-looks-like-Percival’s heavy, black coat. “C’mon now, no tears,” he whispers, stroking Newt’s hair, “C’mon. It’s alright. You’re safe now.” Newt sniffs miserably, “I-I didn’t… I was just following the light. I-I just wanted to be its friend.” When he closes his eyes, he can still see that flickering blue mist hovering, just out of reach. It teases him, urging him to come forward, to follow it, to chase it. But he knows better now, and the realization of what almost happened makes the tears come faster. Newt’s body shudders with barely repressed sobs, loud in the still eerie silence of the forest. Not-Percival’s hand cups the back of the boy’s head, caressing those auburn curls and freeing them of some of the dirt that cakes them from Newt’s fall. “Shh… I know. I know. But those things aren’t friendly, Newt. They’re bad, very bad.” Not-Percival takes them back down the trail at a speed that Newt almost can’t believe. It isn’t apparition, there is no squeezing and pulling pressure on his body. Rather, it’s like the forest warps and twists and stretches around them, tree branches and the trail ahead pulling at odd angles. Seconds pass, before the terrified strains of Mummy and Daddy and Theseus’s voices reach their ears. “Newt!” “Newton Scamander!” “Newt, where are you?!” Mummy all but shrieks with relief when she sees not-Percival emerge from the forest edge with Newt in his arms. Her hands fly to her face. But Newt pays this little mind, instead watching Percival’s face shift as soon as he crosses the edge of the forest onto the grass. His ears shrink and round, jaw softening slightly and the pitch black of his pupils recedes into a small circle surrounded by brown again. It’s as fascinating as it is horrifying. Then Mummy and Daddy and Theseus are upon them, followed soon by other guests. It’s a babble of voices intermixed and blurs of fabric and faces, and Newt somehow finds himself transferred into Theseus’s strong arms, all but crushed to his older brother’s chest. “Merlin and Morgana,” Daddy whispers brokenly, brushing the hair back from Newt’s forehead so Mummy can plant a relieved kiss, “Don’t you ever do that again, do you hear me Newton? Don’t you ever.” He sounds too happy to see Newt to be really angry. Newt nods as best he can, smooshed against Theseus. Newt never realized how much he could be happy to see his annoying older brother before. As Theseus holds him, petting his hair, somehow the conversation turns back to the thing-that-looks-like-Percival, which might actually be Percival. “Thank you,” Mummy says, clasping Percival’s shoulder, “Oh, thank you so much.” Percival shifts and looks at Mummy with eyes that are still slightly unsettled, his pupil growing and diffusing outward every few seconds before shrinking again, like his body is uncomfortable with its’ own skin. “There’s something out there,” Percival says lowly, like he’s trying not to attract attention, “Something very dark. Your wards are corrupted.” “I know,” Daddy replies, shuffling closer to Mummy and Theseus, “I can feel it. It’s like it’s trying to seep in. What on Earth do you think it is?” They don’t seem to notice, or be bothered, by Percival’s unsettled appearance. Newt tries not to let it bother him, either. He twists in Theseus’s arms, getting a good look at Percival’s face in full as the young man’s features pull into a tight expression. “It isn’t Unseelie,” he says, perhaps a tad defensive, “But it can cast Wisps. That’s what you were following, weren’t you, Newt?”

All eyes turn back to him once more, and Newt flushes. He drops his gaze to the grass, so dark and lush beneath their feet, the very tips illuminated in a soft yellow glow from the house. “Yes,” Newt whispers, “I didn’t… I didn’t mean to.” He didn’t realize they were bad. Mummy shudders, not from the cold. Her curls bounce when she turns to look out at the forest beyond the garden, and when she does the light catches the diamonds in her earrings. The movement hides her terrified expression from her sons. Theseus squeezes Newt a little tighter, too. A breeze rustles the leaves on the trees – the first natural sound other than chatter Newt’s heard in close to an hour. The sound is almost foreign in his ears, as if he has become used to the dreadful, deafening silence that accompanied him in the woods. And then, like that, Percival’s features settle back into something completely human. A great weight seems to lift itself off of the garden, popping the way your ears do when you change altitude suddenly. “We should reseal the wards and we can discuss what it might be tomorrow when it’s light,” Daddy says firmly, sensing the change, “Percival, Theseus, will you help?” He turns and asks some of the other guests, older wizards and witches Newt doesn’t know very well. Mummy takes Newt from Theseus, despite Newt’s protests that he is a big boy who can walk perfectly well on his own, thank you. Secretly, he doesn’t mind being carried, not after tonight. He wants to stay with Mummy and Daddy and Theseus and never leave again. As Mummy takes him back towards the house, glittering like a jewel in candle light, that small voice in Newt’s head tells him to turn around. He does. The shadows stretch long across the manicured grass and the gardens, and the lantern bugs flit to and fro. The shapes of Percival, Daddy, Theseus and the others are clearly visible, their backs lit by the lights from the house and flashes of light coming from their wands while they cast. But if Newt peers beyond, into the gloom at the edge of the forest, past the light and the people incanting, he thinks he can hear the silence pressing against his ear drums again. Newt shivers and turns back round quickly, hiding his face in Mummy’s slender throat, nose squashed against her pearls. He misses it, hovering just beyond the ancient oak, that black figure half melted into the bark. It raises one hand and a wisp of blue-grey light pops into being just above it, before it seems to sink back into the shadows and disappear.

Fin

“He’s wearing a suit!”That’s Credence - her partner in crime slash barista bean - who can make the best cappuccinos this side of the ocean while dancing around his younger sister playing behind the counter and taking your order with a mega watt smile. Queenie slaps him lightly on the arm, careful not to disturb him too much as he carefully draws a design into the foam atop their latest customer’s order. Credence’s brows quirk and his tongue pokes out to the side, but there’s a mischievous smile on his face that makes her flush.“Shhhh! He’s right there!”

He is her not so mysterious admirer, all dark eyes and hair as black as jet, slicked back over an undercut in a style that should be illegal, thank you very much. He watches Queenie carefully sometimes, from his hidey hole of a table in the far corner of Queenie’s cafe, always from underneath those impressive brows and the thin, stylish - expensive - rims of his black glasses. Today, he waits patiently for his ridiculously large dose of caffeine, pecking away on the phone he’s cupped in his palm with one finger. It makes him look his age - early forties probably - but Queenie can’t help but smile when she sees it. This tall, imposing businessman in his impeccable suits and shining oxfords standing in her shop, peck-peck-pecking away at the touchscreen of a device that costs almost as much as Queenie’s monthly rent. Credence glances up from the drink to find a takeaway lid and scoffs when he sees Queenie’s besotted look. “You’re ridiculous,” he says, capping the drink and looking at the name scrawled along the side, as if he doesn’t already know who its for.“One extra large macchiato with three shots of espresso for Graves?”Graves slips his phone into the pocket of his ridiculously well fitting pants and ambles up to the counter, easily dodging around the other patrons that fill the space between where he was waiting and the busy counter. Graves gives Credence his signature smile - a small, half quirk to his lips that’s more out of curtesy than actual happiness or pleasure. “Thanks,” Graves murmurs. Queenie doesn’t know how, but his accent - vaguely Irish and pressed along the vocal cords like satin over gravel - colours that one word and makes her belly do flip flops. Graves eyes don’t meet hers as he takes his coffee and the lemon muffin he also ordered from Credence and begins to turn to leave. “Have a nice day!”Queenie calls out after him, placing the blender jug down on the counter a little too hard in order to wave to Graves before his back is to her fully. Graves starts at the sound of Queenie’s voice, and his shoe squeaks a little on the tile as he rights himself and faces her again. “T-thanks,” he says. Both Credence and Queenie gaze on as the tips of his ears begin to go a vibrant crimson. “Y-you too.”He offers her a small wave in return, like he doesn’t know what to do with his hand or himself before scurrying out the door. Graves has to pass by the front window on his way back to wherever he works - Wall Street, Credence will later suggest - and so they also get to watch how the blush creeps over his face as he heads down the sidewalk.For a second, just a brief second, Credence seems stunned absolutely silent. Then he rounds on Queenie with the most terrifying, half-manic grin on his face and delight shining in those kind brown eyes.“Not a word, Credence!” Queenie hisses, picking up the jug again and sticking it in the blender base in order to mix someone’s high fat, high sugar death sentence of a drink that is far too complicated for seven forty five in the morning.  Credence mimes the movement of zipping his lips shut. Queenie knows he will only keep the promise until they aren’t so swamped with customers.

“He wears a freakin’ suit!” Credence crows to Newt, sprawled in his boyfriend’s lap. Tina, curled up beside Newt, idly plays with Credence’s mop of black hair as she listens to him. Queenie flushes when Newt’s eyes land on her and that knowing smile begins to creep across the Brit’s features.“And you should see him. He was all Mister Macho when he came in, but as soon as he saw Queenie it was boom! Little school boy blushing and stuttering when he sees the pretty teacher.”“It is not like that!” Queenie protests, gesturing with her bottle of beer. She might say it a little too loudly, and a little too quickly, but she’s tipsy and full of food and with good friends, so what does it matter?The trio laugh at her. Even Queenie’s own sister laughs along with her boyfriends. Queenie mocks a pout and curls up on herself in the armchair.The thing is, it is like that. And it’s too cute for words.

“Hi!”It’s seven o seven in the morning. Queenie just flipped the sign and already she has a customer. Normally, on a dreary Friday afternoon when the sun can’t break through the thick clouds obscuring the New York skyline and there are occasional rumbles of thunder, she wouldn’t be so bright and cheerful. But it’s Him, her first customer of the day, approaching the counter with his hands tucked in his pockets and a nervous grin creeping over those beautiful features. Really, it isn’t fair that he is so pretty, all straight nose with the slightest up turn to it, and those wide eyes framed by thick black lashes and guarded by brows Queenie swears have minds of their own. His jaw, too, is unfair - razor sharp at the hook and chin, but starting to go ever so slightly soft where it meets his neck. It makes her want to nibble it, to suck bruises into his skin and see if he’s ticklish there, or if he’ll moan. Queenie has to blink repeatedly to pull herself from her fantasy and focus on Graves.“Just the usual?”Graves nods, quick and jerky, already reaching into his back pocket to pull out his wallet. Then he seems to think better of it, pausing with his hand half way through the motion.“What do you recommend?”“Sorry?”Surprise floods her. Graves usually doesn’t say more than three words to her. Queenie thinks its all he can get out without stuttering and blushing as red as a tomato. Graves smiles and ducks his head, before sucking in a breath and asking her again.“Is there anything that you recommend? You know, to drink? I… Want to try something different.”That opens up a whole range of possibilities. Queenie hesitates, not wanting to give him the wrong thing and drive him away. She hums and haws for half a minute, very aware of the way his eyes never leave her face, despite the fact that his ears are starting to go pink yet again. Finally, Queenie figures his caffeine addiction might serve her well.“I make a mean iced cappuccino,” she says, pressing her hip against the counter and leaning in close. Graves’ cologne is subtle - and seems as expensive as the rest of him. Queenie has to stop herself from inhaling deeply and embarrassing the both of them. Graves’ ears are quite red by now. “I’ll try that… Um… a large… with a lemon muffin, please.”Queenie grins, “That will be six seventy, honey. Anything else?”“No, that’s everything thanks,” Graves murmurs, automatically. Something like disappointment blooms in Queenie’s tummy, but she doesn’t let it show. As she begins to turn and gather supplies, Graves’s scares both of them by yelping out, “Wait, no!”She saunters back to the front counter, heart in the back of her throat, as Graves seems to try and collect himself.

“Y-your number,” he mumbles, “If it wouldn’t be too forward.”Queenie has to stop herself from screaming as she takes her sharpie and scrawls it across his palm. They’re both grinning, ear to ear as she makes his drink and he promises to call after work. When Graves leaves, still beaming, Queenie shrieks and does a dance around the space behind the counter.

This is ridiculously long and didn’t necessarily go where I intended it to, so it might get a re-write later. But for now, I hope you enjoy. Thank you so very much for the lovely prompt, darling. <3 :)

“You’d never believe what I heard,” one of the coffee witches – the one whose name O’Brien can never remember, whispers to one of the interns under the guise of pouring coffee and handing him a biscuit. She gets a raised brow and a bemused shrug for her trouble, but she bats not an eyelash and continues on anyway.“So Nancy was takin’ afternoon coffee around the Bullpen, you know, and she always goes to Mr. Graves office after doin’ the bullpen, and when she knocked she thought she heard Graves say ‘come in’, so in she went and then…” Here the coffee witch looks around, dyed strawberry blond too-tight curls bouncing around her heavily powered neck when she looks right then left to make sure the coast is clear. O’Brien remains in her blind spot, just out of sight. “So in she went, like I was saying, and there was Queenie Goldstein sitting in Graves’ lap.”

Because I’m bitter about Graves not coming back in FB2 and salty af that they called it The Crimes of Grindelwald. Here, have some Graves being a BAMF and rescuing himself.  Warnings for being buried alive and MACUSA’s less than stellar interrogation ethics.  Tagging @thegaypumpingthroughyourveins, @funkzpiel, @auroargraves and @wanderingnork who might enjoy this. 

He wakes in darkness, void of light and sound, the world completely silent and still around him. He wakes in darkness, a heavy weight pressing down on his chest and his belly and his legs, pressing him deeper. His ribs groan, lungs protesting when he struggles to take in a breath and then regrets it. Dirt fills his mouth, wet and putrid, tasting like death and life and sweet in the way soil is after the rain. Dirt. If it’s dirt, he’s buried, alive and alone with tonnes of earth bearing down on his fragile, mortal body. It pushes harder, harder, moisture sinking into his clothes and seeping into his skin and his bones and just keeps advancing. His ribcage cries out now, throat on fire. He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe – don’t panic. Don’t panic. He tries not to panic, acutely aware of his time running out and the limited supply of oxygen he has left. It’s a minute, if he’s lucky, seconds if he isn’t. Gathering his wits takes precious time and the anxiety spikes in his blood, makes it race and pulse and difficult to concentrate over the roar of his ears. Reaching out, he grasps at the thing filaments of magic, hiding in the keratin of his fingernails and the fibres of his shirt and tugs, tugs, tugs, pulling it kicking and screaming back into himself. Then, like an elastic pulled to breaking, it floods every cell in his body like molten gold, sending nerves shrieking back to life in a fiery prickle of agony. He grits his teeth, pushes past it, and the ache in his chest and the desperate pounding of his heart and focuses his mind on one task. Years and years of training and trail by fire, of childhood days being kicked up and down the courtyard and twenties doing the kicking come down to this moment, this second. Confringo. The band snaps again, whatever power stored in his body releasing in a rush of heat. The earth around him shudders, throbbing. Confringo. Dirt falls into his face again, shaken loose. Confringo. Confringo. Confringo. Confringo. An almighty roar breaks past the rush in his ears. Silver-white light pierces his tomb, followed by spring-sweet air. He sits up, gasping and coughing and pushing soil out of battered vocal chords, chest heaving and tender. When he’s caught his breath, he doggedly hauls himself out of the hole to roll across dew-strewn grass. He lays there for a moment, beside his would-be grave. From between the gnarled and ancient oak trees which guard the sky he can just make out the constellations. Orion twinkles down at him merrily, belt shining brightly and bow raised to flight the arrow and make the kill. He doesn’t know why, but the thought of the hunter sends chills racing down his spine and mismatched eyes tearing through his brain. All he remembers before waking up is the curl of thin lips, bleach blond hair and those mis-matched eyes. All he can remember thinking is that he is too late to stop it. He swears again. The panic, fading back into his bloodstream now surges to life once more. Wobbling to his knees, he glances up one last time at Orion before closing his eyes and thinking of somewhere else entirely.

---

The wizard departs in a loud, crackling and swirling ball of light and fury. His body twists, contorts and vaporizes, disappearing into the abyss and leaving only silence in his wake. The forest remains, dark and quiet, the birds and beasts hushed as if still waiting for something to happen. Over the grave, unmarked and unburdened, the oak trees sway in the slight breeze, as if dancing to a victory no one knows of yet.

---

“Let’s try this again, then, shall we?” Johnson hisses, slipping the vile of vertasium back into his pocket. It’s off the books, officially, but Picquery watches from the corner of the cell, stony faced and still. “Where is Percival Graves?” It’s too soon for the potion kick in, still making its way down the traitor’s throat and into his belly, where it will burn and churn and leach into his bloodstream and force him to spill his guts entirely. And the madman knows it. He remains silent, impassive, those eerie eyes boring into Johnson’s very soul. It’s like looking into the eyes of an animal – something floats beneath those glassy surfaces but you can’t put your finger on it. It’s there, but not quite human. Johnson curls his lip. Anger floods in once again, white hot. Fear follows in its wake and his fingers tremble and his knees shake and a cold sweat breaks out across the back of his neck. He raises his hand, open palmed, and brings it across the man’s face. His head snaps to the side, moving with the fluidity of a rag doll, before centering once more. He says nothing. Johnson nearly screams. Lurching forward, he takes hold of the man’s stolen costume with both fists and shakes the man so hard that the anti-apparition chains biting into his flesh rattle. “Where the fuck is he? Where is Percival Graves?” Somewhere, floors above them, a woman screams. The man’s head turns at the same time the Aurors by the door swing to address something or someone. Johnson lets his focus drift for no more than a second before fixing in on the traitor once more. A smile creeps its way across that pudgy and pale face, showing off something that could have been a lovely smile once upon a time but now looks decidedly more unhinged. The door bursts open, someone yelps, and the man says, “He’s right here.”

“You listen to me, Credence Graves,” Percival rasps, voice cigarette and whiskey rough, hoarse from days spent yelling and nights spent smoking, “You listen to me well…”His hands shake these days - a minute tremor Credence can only feel because he knows the man better than he knows oxygen or water or the feel of ground under his feet. Those hands, which bear scars like lightning, silvery and thinner than a hair, shake and tremble against Credence’s cheeks. Credence cups one in his own, trapping it, stopping Percival from wiping away the tears that run down his cheeks.Percival stares into his eyes, truly stares. Those dark irises, which dance like a house on fire, sear into Credence’s soul, ripping past any defence Credence could even bother to throw in their way, if he cared enough to do so. Percival’s age is starting to show more; the silver at his temples fades to white now, creeping higher up the sides of his head with each passing year-month-week-day-hour-minute-second. That scares Credence - as much as the creak in Percival’s knees or the hitch in his step on rainy mornings or how he dozes off sometimes now. Percival sucks in a breath, preparing Credence for the oncoming storm like a gust of a too-warm breeze in July. “You are strong. You are competent. You are powerful, magnificent, a survivor.”“I know,” Credence murmurs, nuzzling his face into Percival’s hand - wand calloused and work roughened and still powerful enough to break bone, yet which harbours such tenderness.“You don’t need anyone,” Percival continues, “You don’t even need me.”It’s not true - Credence knows he would (will) break, if (when) he loses Percival, shattering into a tiny million bits. But he also knows (or at least hopes) that he would be able to re-rebuild himself (he’s good at that) and carry on, even if he isn’t quite the same as before. 

But that’s a long time from now. For now, he only snuffles a little and finally lets Percival wipe away the tears with a caress of his thumb and a kiss to pale skin. 

“I know,” Credence says again, “But I want you. Forever, still.”Percival laughs, throaty, and a smile tugs at that tired face and prods it into something bright and more youthful than Percival’s years. “Forever.”(There’s more tears after that, but neither of them notice.)