With each step he is followed by a soft clattering of china, the tray in his hands as steady as he can make it, he hasn’t quite mastered the smooth carrying of objects like that, but he keeps telling himself not to worry about it, after all, Queenie is the one telling him not to. She’s been caught in other business and he is more than happy to help out, carrying out simple tasks like bringing coffee to the director himself.
It is an unsettling feeling to gaze upon the man’s face since it was worn by one of his tormentors, but he knows this man was a victim himself, used for his position and kept locked up as nothing more than a tool, much like himself. He hasn’t seen much of the real Mr. Graves, only a few glances, and he doesn’t quite look like the man he knew, he is thinner, the long months of torture is evident on his looks even after a long period of recovery. So far he had not one bad word towards Credence so he doesn’t mind bringing in his coffee, but the moment he approaches his desk he is forced into a halt.
The man is leaning over his desk, face against the wooden surface, slow breathing and no movement. He appears to be sleeping. Credence is not one to judge for such a behaviour and he doesn’t think it’s his place anyway. Eventually he decides to walk over to the desk, placing the tray down softly, wondering if he should just leave and let the man wake whenever he pleases. He considers his options for a few moments, thinking he could get in trouble if the coffee is cold by the time he awakens, so a slender finger reaches out to gently poke the man’s arm, immediately taking a step back in case of retribution.