#fbweek2019

Day 7: Holiday/Festival

FB Week 2019: 

#FBWeek2019  Day 1: Songs 

 I Hope This Gets To You - The Daylights 

 "I've been searching for a couple words, that could grow wings and fly like birds."

 "Just imagine the world a little smaller tonight."

 "And I hope this, I hope this gets to you, to you" 

I see the moon, the moon sees me

Graves isn’t afraid of the dark after Grindelwald. He does his time in hospital, he takes his potions and he balances on crutches while he learns to walk again, and he’s not afraid of the dark.

It’s pointless. Nightmares don’t need shadows to hide in.

After the hospital is the rehabilitation, the endless stretches and exercises, diet plans that don’t put his weight on fast enough and pain relievers that never quite take away the ache in his left knee. And beyond that is the paperwork, the training, the new recruits that Grindelwald hired but Graves himself never assessed, the cases to go over that Grindelwald closed and Graves stubbornly reopens until he’s sure everything is done right.

He hides in his office and hates when people don’t dare come in to see him. He scowls into his coffee and hates when people come to check on him. He invents meetings when people corner him and makes his limping escape with his pulse thundering in his ears. He doesn’t want to talk to them. He doesn’t want to be left alone. He doesn’t know what he wants and he’s too tired to decide.

His office is too big, too quiet, and, when he works late and refuses to make the journey home, too dark. He stays because his house is bigger, quieter, darker, and because there’s too much to do, he says, to justify going home.

He sleeps, when he has to, curled on a cushioning charm behind his desk. The window is closed but the curtains are open, and on nights when the moon doesn’t shine Graves pulls his coat on tighter and brews his coffee stronger and ignores the sticky dryness in his eyes. He glares at the papers on his desk and the letters swim. He adds another lumos to the collection clustered at the ceiling and squints, willing his tired brain to make sense of acquisitions and budget report and fluctuating rate of repeat offenders.

At half past two, he gives up. It’s too dark to sleep and his lumos only lasts as long as he’s awake. Most of MACUSA has no-maj lights that can shine without anyone to power them but Grindelwald was old fashioned and reconfigured Graves’ office to run on candles and magic. Besides, the no-maj lights in the other rooms are harsh, neon-tinged white light that stabs needles into Graves’ over-tired brain. It’s a relief to step out into the cold, the orange glow of streetlights filtering down through a damp mist of rain.

He takes a moment to stand in it. Eyes closed, head tipped back, fingers growing numb around his rapidly cooling mug. The rain soaks into his hair, running in rivulets under his scarf, and he allows himself to pretend, for a minute, that the moon is shining and he isn’t afraid.

There’d been no moon with Grindelwald.

There’d been no streetlights either, nor wet hair curling around his ears, nor empty roads lined with silent cars. Graves shakes himself; he’s cold, and tired, but there’s work to do and he’s just taking a break to clear his head. Maudlin thoughts can wait. The hospital gave him a clean bill of health, dwelling on what happened achieves nothing. He’s fine. He’ll take his walk and his break and go back to the office after and it’ll be fine.

He’s so focused on telling himself this that he doesn’t notice where his feet take him. Foot. He doesn’t notice where his foot and his prosthetic take him, not until he’s standing on the edge of central park and frowning into the trees.

There are no lights in central park.

He hesitates, but remember, remember that he’s not afraid of the dark and he’s not afraid to prove it because he’s fine, remember -

He resettles his grip on the mug he’s carrying and strides in. The streetlights disappear behind him and the trees crowd in close, sheltering him from the worst of the rain. He keeps walking.

... down through the leaves of the old oak tree...

The singing is soft, quiet; it lilts like a lullaby and Graves can’t tell where in the trees it’s coming from. It doesn’t matter. He knows where he’s going. The ground is damp underfoot, leaves slipping on wet grass, and the branches reach out and snag the trailing edge of his scarf. Graves ignores them; he can see, now, the faint glow coming from the clearing up ahead.

“Newt,” he says when he reaches him, and Newt’s singing stops. In his arms, the marmite grumbles, glowing tentacles resettling around Newt’s shoulders as it pulls him closer.

Newt smiles. “Hey,” he says, equally quiet. “Bad night?”

The ground is damp. It’s raining, though the branches above are keeping the worst of it off, even in the clearing. There’s no moon and outside the circle around Newt, the trees are dark.

Graves sinks to the floor next to him and feels himself finally relax. “Couldn’t sleep,” he says hoarsely. He holds the mug out. “I brought you tea.”

Newt takes it with a pleased him, lifting his arm and leaning back so Graves can rest against him. With his eyes closed, Graves doesn’t need to pretend that moon is shining. There’d been no Newt with Grindelwald. There are no nightmares with Newt.

The marmite trills an impatient demand and Newt smooths a hand through Graves’ hair and resumes his song.

Day 1 of FB Week 2019! I hope you enjoy!

“I just want you to be happy, Tina. You matter to me, and I will do whatever I can to show that to you.”

Tina has a very bad day. Thankfully, Newt is there to make her smile again.

Day 2 #FBWeek2019