Work Text:
I
(step, step, step, step)
Brown ankle-high work boots; mud-caked, stained with tiny splotches of white paint -
‘Construction,’ Credence’s mind readily assumed. He held out a flyer in the man’s general direction, and he released a tiny sigh of relief as it was taken.
(step, step, step, step)
Navy blue single-strapped Mary Jane’s; neat, well taken care of, but a bit frayed around the edges -
‘Possible sympathizer,’ Credence thought. Again, he hesitantly offered a flyer. The woman’s pace wavered, and the tension in Credence’s shoulders uncoiled as the piece of paper was tugged out of his outstretched hand.
(step, step, step, step)
The sound of soft chatter, machinery, and the never-ending clack-clack-clacking of shoes resounded in the corner street of the Thirty-Fifth, the combination of noises going on and on like an oddly mismatched band.
It was almost noon, but as the sun should be rising higher, the temperature was only getting lower. Credence released one shuddering breath, absently watching as a white wisp escaped his mouth and dissolved in the air. Shivering, he tugged his thin jacket closer to his body. Despite spending the better part of the day distributing more than a quarter of his daily quota, Credence still felt like the stack of flyers on his arm weighed the same as when he had started.
(step, step, step, step)
Tan round-toed oxfords with brogues; suede, dusty, with the soles worn down -
Credence mildly reached out, flyer in hand - but the man simply walked into and past the appendage, crumpling the copy in the process.
“Hey, watch it!” the man irritably exclaimed.
“Sorry,” Credence immediately piped, voice cracking due to disuse. “Sorry.”
“Oh I bet ya are,” the stranger lowly grumbled, “I bet.”
And with one heavy ‘Hmph,’ he was gone, angry steps fading into the distance, slowly becoming part of the city’s cacophony.
(step, step, step, step)
Ever carefully, Credence balanced the rest of the flyers in his arms as he attempted to re-straighten the crumpled piece on top. He was suddenly reminded that it was harder to distribute flyers in the late morning, what with the increasing number of rushing bankers, businessmen and wealthy housewives on the streets.
Credence stared at restless legs – at the regular thump of moving feet upon pavement like the beating of some great machine – and thought that these were the type of people who seemed to never have time to stop. The type of people who, when bothered, made things harder for Credence.
(step, step, step, step)
Black wingtip oxfords; leather, plain, polished, neatly laced up -
The type of people who, like that man, wore the most expensive-looking shoes on the street.
(step, step, step, step)
Cautiously, Credence eyed the stranger’s black-clad feet. He did not even bother to make an effort to offer a flyer, for he simply expected the man to walk right past him. But as their distance closed to about a yard, the man suddenly –
(step, step)
suspiciously –
(step -)
stopped.
Directly in front of Credence.
Nervous and unsure, Credence gulped. He dared not breathe, but he nevertheless stayed rooted on the spot, feet and eyes resolutely glued to the ground. He was subjected to stare at the nice pair of shoes in front of his shoddy second-hand boots as he silently prepared for whatever was coming.
And come it indeed had.
Without warning, the man reached out for the stack of Second Salem flyers, while Credence – wary of making a scene – made no move to stop him. In one smooth movement, the stranger gently brushed Credence’s slack fingers aside as he took the crumpled flyer atop the pile.
‘Warm,’ Credence mentally sighed, his freezing fingers tingling at the brief skin contact.
The stranger made a little noise at the back of his throat, seemingly in reply to Credence’s unvoiced thoughts. "It's especially cold today," he commented in a serious voice.
Then, as if in exchange for the flyer he had taken, he fished something out of his coat pocket and placed it upon the stack of flyers in Credence’s arms.
It was a pair of black leather gloves.
For a long moment, Credence could only stare at them – too shocked to react or even appreciate how fine the material looked. When he finally regained his bearings, he opened his mouth.
“Sir - I,” Credence stuttered. “This is -”
And for the first time that day, he looked up –
(step, step, step, step)
but his gaze landed on no one.
Credence then hastily looked around for black wingtip oxfords, but it was for naught. For as abruptly as he had come, the man was gone; no doubt swallowed by the never-stopping wave of people, like magic.
~
From on top one of the nearby buildings, obstructed from view by shadows, a figure watched on. His dark eyes flashed, and he pointedly raised a hand holding a thin stick. He breathed in, closed his eyes, and then waved the stick in the air in a complicated pattern; looking - for anyone who dared look closely - like a great maestro conducting to music only he could hear.
Below, unsuspecting people scurried on like ants.
~
Credence went home early that day; hands stuffed in warm leather, and head filled with a mantra of ‘black wingtip oxfords leather plain polished neatly laced up.’ He burned the image into his mind – slowly memorizing every detail, every piece of information that he could use to identify the man with the warm hands.
He promised himself that if he ever saw the stranger again, he would look him in the eyes and properly thank him.
That night, Credence went to sleep clutching black leather gloves to his chest, wholeheartedly believing that its warmth would chase away the cold darkness that plagued his dreams.
II
(step, step, step, step)
“Sir –”
(step, step, step)
“Sorry, excuse me, I – Sir –”
(step, step)
“Sir!”
(step –)
“Sir!”
Credence stopped in pursuit as he suddenly realized how his voice had echoed back at him. Puzzled, he looked around at the dark, cramped alley, and only then realized that he had – somehow without noticing – wandered off the main street.
From the far end of that same alley, the man Credence had been calling after finally paused and turned around.
“Can I help you?” he inquired, voice faintly familiar and made hollow by the tall brick walls on either side of them.
Credence nodded minutely in response, but realized that the man couldn’t see him from such a distance. So, like a moth drawn to flame, Credence went deeper into the shadows.
“Sir,” he began, intent on introducing himself first, “I’m –”
And as Credence approached closer still, his eyes adjusted in the darkness. Under the bluish sheen of the early evening, he met the stranger’s own eyes and watched as familiarity flickered in them.
“The boy,” the man cut in, brows raised, “from the Second Salemers.”
“Yessir,” Credence confirmed, surprised that he had left enough of an impression to be remembered. Softly, he cleared his throat to cover his discomfort. “I – I wanted to thank you, sir —”
“Please,” the man lightly interrupted, shaking his head. "It’s Percival Graves," he offered with a faint smile, hand outstretched.
Credence looked on, startled. He’d never been permitted to shake somebody’s hand before. It was hardly something the adults in the orphanage had encouraged in children after all.
Realizing that he was being rude by simply staring at the proffered limb, Credence nervously brought his right hand forward and politely bobbed his head.
“Credence, sir,” he said, introducing himself. “Credence Barebone.”
Mr Graves’ larger hand easily swallowed Credence’s as they shook.
"Credence,” Mr Graves carefully enunciated, as if wrapping his tongue around it. “Fitting name, for a messenger of truth."
Credence ignored the strange feeling that bloomed in his chest upon hearing his name uttered so. Instead, he directed his focus on Mr Graves’ thumb as it brushed across his bony knuckles.
“Of truth?” he inquired, cheeks flushing from what he convinced himself was the cold. “You… believe, then? You believe that – that they exist, among us?”
Mr Graves leaned in conspiratorially and brought their joined hands to his chest, flattening Credence’s palm upon his heart.
“I don’t merely believe, Credence,” he said in the quietest of voices, as if imparting a great secret. “I know for certain that these beings exist. For Magic is real, just as you and I are.”
And at that moment, as Credence felt the older man’s steadily beating heart under his hand, he knew that the stranger called Percival Graves was telling the truth.
In the ensuing silence, Credence gulped noisily, wetting his too-dry throat. His eyes darted from the mouth of the alley to Mr Graves’ eyes and back again, only to finally settle on his feet.
“Could -” he tentatively started. “Could you tell me more, Mr Graves, sir?”
Preoccupied as he was with looking down, Credence didn’t see the way Mr Graves’ dark eyes glinted and changed colors in the shadows; showing – for a moment – a mismatched pair of brown and blue, filled to the brim with hunger and glee. As it was, it was gone in a flash – to be replaced once more with gentle dark eyes.
“Of course, Credence,” Mr Graves murmured, like a quiet promise. “If that is what you want.”
Credence looked up then, seeing only that which he wanted to see; the offer of warmth and comfort. Meanwhile, underneath his cold fingers, Percival Graves’ racing heart was overlooked.