#and i realised i had turned myself into a perfect piece of propaganda for them to wave around as an example of why you should give em money | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

realitv · 5 years

Text

EPISODE SIX REWRITES: DONAR THE GREAT.

NOTE: The N*zis will hereby be a local mob. It’s the fucking 20s. I don’t know why they did that. I don’t want to know why they did that. I’m not keeping that in and I’m not acknowledging that as anything more than a shitty, awful fucking choice that really had no business being in there. There’s a lot to unpack in that, and none of it is good. The odd subplot of Technical B.oy recruiting Columbia, Actual Propaganda Creature, was pretty clearly written with Media in mind. Columbia, personification of the USA, was historically a pretty strong propaganda tool and now currently survives via Columbia pictures. Media really did get Columbia, huh. Technical B.oy should have been recruiting Vulcan, Hadúr, Luchtaine et cetera for technology and weaponry purposes during the war. It literally felt like the writers wrote this with Media in mind, and then realised they’d overwritten them. 🤷 Obviously y'all don’t have to go along with this specifically but I say DEATH OF THE SHOW, DEATH OF THE AUTHOR BAY-BEE!

IT’S A SEEDY, SMOKEY THEATRE: a hallowed hall where patrons dress up, dress down in ERMINE AND PEARLS to forget their troubles for the night, to believe in something bigger and better than they are. Art deco gilt reads AMERICA: 1929; a world on edge, a tipping point. A bullshit, razzle dazzle show that’s rehearsed and played to death to an audience that adores CHEAP THRILLS. No soul; just some sort of temple to the GLORY DAYS that were long since dead and gone. Applause, please! They’ve been watching. Of course they’ve been watching. Centre stage in a plush booth that reeks of cigarette smoke; the static always comes with them. Radio white noise and the snippets of talk shows filtering through the big jazz band and it crackles within the ears of patrons. Reminds them, tells them: GO HOME. SIT DOWN. LISTEN. LISTEN TO ME. That little brown box with the glowing little dials; the voice America woke up to. They’ve been watching for a while now; a regular devotee from the big leagues come to bless them with their appearance, their presence; people are drawn to them like flies to honey and when they applaud, when they smile, the theatre does too; rows and rows of teeth on display and Wednesday has the nerve to appear with a drink in his hand. IT’S ON THE HOUSE. “And if I said I don’t want it, honey?” ALL THE DRAMA OF A TALK SHOW HOST! Accented syllables and vowels drawling into the beginnings of a Transatlantic accent. The Mass Media is RADIANT; glowing; spotlights upon that bleached head of perfect curls and it lights up their face; the beginnings of wires and mainframes only just starting to grow through flesh and ink. I GIVE IT AS A GIFT TO YOU. “And I said I don’t want it. See now, I don’t much approve of you and your ilk taking up space in my domain like this.” Another drag from their cigarette. Smoke spiralling into Wednesday’s face and when they laugh, the room fills with the grainy sounds of a radio jingle. “Using my voice like that! Naughty, naughty. IT IS NOT MEANT FOR YOU.” The smile fades, melts from their expression and it leaves them frigid, leaves them cold and sure. Wednesday’s one good eye burns. “I AM THE MESSAGE. The message is the future. I am not for you.” NOW, NOW, MY DEAR. YOU FORGET, WE DID NOT NEED YOU BEFORE. WE DO NOT NEED YOU NOW. THE PEOPLE WILL FORGET. THE PEOPLE WILL MOVE ON, AND YOU WILL BE OBSOLETE. Forgotten. THERE’S NO NEED TO GET ANGRY. “I was there when they wrote your stories into the Edda, when they carved your image into stone. I was there for a great many things, Al. And now, you are on my stage, using my voice. Maybe I’ll stretch my legs, and go see The Law. Tip him off, since this place just ain’t up to snuff. Or, I let you talk: I’ll take my payment later. Do we have a contract?” The white noise presses in; their eyes meet, a steady beat of silence before he nods. WE HAVE A COMPACT.

CUT BACK TO PRESENT DAY BLACK BRIAR: The World and GENERAL ORGANA at the War Table, the right hand pushing pieces across the map. THE WAR HAS STARTED. World’s voice echoes; General Organa pausing in their ministrations to cast plasma gaze to them. “And no one has realised it. A train crash in Chicago.” A piece moves across the board. “An armed robbery in Rhode Island.” Another. “Poisoned lobster in Nashville.” Eyes meet. They mirror each other; glance for glance, smile for smile; Leia leans in close. “They have been quiet, despite all of this. Are they building THE DEATH STAR?” NO. THEY HAVE SCATTERED, AS I SAID THEY WOULD. ONE BY ONE, THEY WILL FALL. “Of course, Commander. I only wish to do my part to SERVE THE ALLIANCE.” Silence. AND YOU WILL. OF COURSE YOU WILL. YOU BOTH WILL.” Cut to General Organa, brows furrowed: The World beckons; like a shadow, they follow; a quick, purposeful stride, hands pressed to the small of their back to the sidelines. Social Media sifting through images: SWIPE RIGHT? SUPER LIKE? HEART REACT? COMMENT, TWEET, HASHTAG OVER IT! A soft ‘ahem’ from World and the noise dies; turning around to face Commander and General with wide eyes. YEAH? Nervousness, how unlike her. Leia’s gaze burns. BOTH OF YOU MUST MAKE READY FOR THE BROADCAST. “Affirmative. All preparations have been made: I am ready when you are.” I NEED MORE POWER. Two sets of eyes facing the other piece in the puzzle to find it lacking. OUR NEW FRIEND IS COMING. THEY HAVE ASSURED ME: YOU WILL BE READY. Their shadow covers her; drags away as World exits stage right. Two voices left alone; Leia stares, stares, stares. It’s empty, it’s cold; flat. Social Media holds it, twitches: it’s the same numinous dread The Boy had etched into their features whenever the General came calling. “IT’S A WONDER YOU’RE STILL ALIVE. More power. This is child’s play, but then again, YOU’RE A LITTLE SHORT FOR A STORMTROOPER.”

AMERICA: 1933. THE THEATRE IS CRACKING, YELLOWED: prohibition may have ended but Great Depression left everyone hungry. THEY ENTER IN SILK AND RUBIES: rosy cheeks and the smile of a Hollywood Starlet. Flushed, ALIVE! Hollow eyes stare at them with RAVENOUS hunger and when they laugh, the world tints with static; PRE-CODE MASTERPIECES and biting social commentary. Standing against the backdrop of an abandoned stage and despite themselves, their feet move; tap, slide, swivel; IS IT THE CHARLESTON? Some new crazy song and dance number? TUNE IN! WATCH THE LATE NIGHT PICTURE SHOW! Snapped out of it; a slow, slow clap echoing; spotlight dies and they stand stock still. I DID NOT THINK I’D SEE YOU BACK HERE, MY DEAR. “Mister Wednesday.” A curl of their lip, hopping down from the stage and it’s a quick one-two step. “I’ve come for my payment. We have a need. We’ve had our eye on Miss Columbia. You remember our terms: I LET YOU SPEAK. Now, I want my slice of the pie. “Hasn’t it been ages since I saw you last, honey?” YOU. YOU AGAIN. Eyes flitting between Wednesday and The Mass Media; tightening the sash on their robe and drawing it to a close under prying eyes. “I thought you’d have been happier to see lil’ ol’ me again after all this time. I’m real sorry about how the Great War ended up, but you know how it is. Mister Money decided LIBERTY SELLS, and THAT’S A WRAP! Centuries of mythos overwritten by another Goddess. She’s doing fine, by the way. All of us are.” Silence. It falls thick and heavy and the world around them buzzes with white noise. “Cat got your tongue?” WE’RE DOING FINE. A pout. “Oh, now, see here, I just hate liars. Can’t stand ‘em! It’s why I got all these new ethics and standards in place. And you, honey, are violating those. Look at you, you look like someone who just crawled out of the DUST BOWL.” And she looks down. Looks at her faded, out of date clothes. The mouldering room around her. Media takes another drag from their cigarette; lounges in the settee that’s falling apart and grins. “You’re just surviving, sweetheart. The people will forget. Then you will die, and I’ll look back on the beautiful legacy we had together, all that teamwork through the centuries and say to myself: ‘If only Miss Columbia had listened to me!’ There’s something coming. We can all feel it. I want to give you your place back, I want to move forward with you. I’ll even put you in the pictures, then you’ll never die.” It’s served on a silver platter, tied with velvet ribbon: how can any God resist? WELL -- I -- Wednesday holds up a hand. SHE’LL THINK ABOUT IT, GIVE YOU AN ANSWER SOON. “Well, don’t keep me waiting, honey.” A languid sigh; standing in a smooth motion as they moved towards the door. “--I’ll be seeing you on the studio lot.”

EVEN DYING MALLS HAVE EYES: grainy CCTV footage near a repair chaos picks up a tremor, something not quite right: Wednesday’s spear, carved with runes; near repaired. A black and white eye presses forward, stares. The screen goes blank with a bzzt. RED ALERT. The noise echoes; lights flashing; World and their right hand ROD SERLING come back by popular remand; finger hovering over red button and the World pushes down to bring an awful silence. WHAT WAS THAT? Social Media scampering in; out of breath. IT’S SO ANALOGUE. As was everything within the space. WE ARE AHEAD OF SCHEDULE. “--I was not aware that we were on one.” A sideways glance; World and Serling’s eyes meet; electricity flavours the air. THEY HAVE CARVED THE RUNES INTO THE SPEAR? “Yes. IT IS MAN’S PREROGATIVE TO CREATE THEIR OWN HELL: and we, I believe, HAVE JUST CROSSED INTO THE TWILIGHT ZONE.”

#📺❝ TUNE IN AT ELEVEN FOR MORE ! ( headcanons. )#📺❝ ( verse. ) PUT A PILLOW OVER THAT FEELING. BEAR DOWN. SMOTHER IT !

5 notes · View notes

zuzkyblog-blog · 7 years

Text

The Night Visitor ( Credence Barebone x Reader)

Summary: Reader, an Auror employed by MACUSA, falls ill with flu. As she stays home and tries to manage the sickness on her own, she wakes up in the dead of night to find an unexpected visitor in her kitchen.

Pairing: Credence Barebone x Reader

Word Count: 5234 (what is brevity?)

Warnings: mentions of abuse, possibly angsty themes like loneliness (?) etc.

Comment: Comments/thoughts VERY WELCOME. I don’t know, this one doesn’t have much of a plot and it’s simply TOO long without much fluff, but I do have an idea for the sequel with much more Credence in it. Also, I apologise if you find the English weird. I’m not a native speaker and I often struggle to express myself correctly.

You wobbled your way through the city to your apartment. People you were passing by on the streets were giving you weird looks. A young, pretty woman like you, stumbling across the street dead-drunk? Preposterous! Little they knew your state had nothing to do with alcohol intoxication.

Just when you noted that the crowds around you grew thicker, you realised you ran into one of the infamous Second Salemers’ rallies. Before you knew it, one of the kids that the crazy preacher-woman had distribute propaganda leaflets all across the city handed you a piece of paper. You looked up the rather tall figure - this was no child, was it?

Your eyes tried to focus on a face of a young man. You couldn’t really register all the details about his clothing and looks, but he was very handsome and you immediately recognised him. Apart from his name you knew him well; he was the eldest adoptive son of that Mary Lou Barebone woman. He was always found standing on a street long after the rally was over, trying to get rid of all pamphlets he had to distribute for the day. You’d always avoided him like the plague, because just one look at his pitiful existence filled your heart with sadness. You were a melancholic creature and in a desperate act of self-preservation you forbid yourself to take an extra step to safe any of the Barebone children, no matter how much you fancied the young man with a ridiculous bowl cut.

This time, however, you completely missed your chance to avoid him and stared at him face to face. His meek, bashful eyes made you uncomfortable. There was something apologetic in them, although he had nothing to apologise for.

“W-Would you mind…,” he spoke in soft voice, but never finished the sentence. Instead, you noticed his hands moving, offering you one of the cursed leaflets. At normal circumstances you’d never take one, but today you reached out and took it, shoving it into the pocket of your coat. Opening your lips for an obligatory ‘thank you’, he beat you to it. “Thank you,” he uttered and his pale lips flickered in a vain attempt to smile. You blinked at him, completely confused by his reaction.

“You’re welcome,” you replied and smiled back. He gazed at you gratefully, but then looked away. Something else attracted his attention, so you just pushed past him and continued your wobbly walk home.

It was nearly 2 o'clock in the afternoon when you got to your apartment after excruciating day in the office and the weird meeting with the Salemer boy. As an Auror employed by MACUSA, your job ranged all the way from chasing wizards dabbling in dark arts to digging through mountains of paperwork. There was no way to predict which would be the case each day and honestly, you were alright with both. Not today, though. Either option seemed terrible because of the exhausting fever that took possession of your body. That was exactly the cause of your wobbly walk.

What seemed like a little sneeze in the morning turned into something that appeared to be proper influenza infection. You were sure you could handle it on your own. After all, you’d always been very proficient in herbology, and mixing antidotes and plant-based medicine was your forte back in the good old Ilvermorny days. Unfortunately, the illness required you to take a few days off so your body had a chance to rest properly. You wouldn’t be much of a help chasing criminals or dealing with paperwork anyway.

Still, you tried your best to survive the day in the office despite your progressively rising body temperature and growing muscular exhaustion. If it wasn’t for Queenie, one of a few true friends you had in MACUSA, who quickly noticed your pathetic state and mentioned it to your boss, you would probably put on your strong face and endured it till the end of your shift.

As soon as you locked the door to your apartment and allowed yourself to rest your back against it for a few moments, the feeling of gratitude for the pretty and considerate Legilimens flooded your body. You’ve never been very good with fevers, so the decision to take a few days off seemed right.

Taking a deep breath only to realise how much you were hurting, you dragged your feet towards the kitchen where you kept your potion-making tools scattered across the table. There was no need to keep it hidden from No-Majes; it’s not like you had any non-wizard visitors or visitors in general anyway. You got ingredients from your stash and started brewing something to kill the fever and something for general revitalisation; that’s what you usually used when you got sick. As the first potion was simmering on low heat, you prepared something to eat, even though you had absolutely no appetite. Last but not least, you boiled hot water for herb tea. Staying hydrated was the key.

Two hours later you were finally done with potion-making. You took spoonful of both potions, downed them with some apple juice to subdue the disgusting taste, and stored both brews in dark glass bottles for later consumption, tucking them into your old fridge. You checked once again if your front door was really locked just to make sure no unwanted visitors would disturb you and finally all the conditions were perfect for a good long rest in the bedroom.

Giving yourself a chance to read a book in your bed just because it felt like waste of a perfect day to fall asleep straight away, very soon your body let you know what it really needed. You drifted to sleep with the book dropped to your chest.

You woke up in the evening, pleasantly surprised to feel so much better than earlier. Your potions were obviously working wonders, but the path to recovery was just starting. Still, you decided to do a few daily chores like washing the dishes. Before returning to bed, you opened your window a tad to get some fresh air inside, even though it was November and it could get quite cold during nights.

Unfortunately, you didn’t sleep well at all. Terrible feverish nightmares haunted you. Dreams about your childhood, about problems with your mother, your work, daily investigations as a MACUSA’s Auror, even your days back at Ilvermorny, breakups and reunions with the one romantic partner you ever had and all the following nights spent in loneliness and tears, even today’s face to face meeting with the shy boy with leaflets. All of that kept coming back to you, mixed in some sort of surreal collage, as if the thoughts were nothing more than ingredients for your potions, ground together by your pestle and mortar and no matter how often you woke up to cut the string of the perpetual dream, it always came back as soon as you’d closed your eyes again.

Your eyelashes fluttered open in the dead of night. You were even more tired than before and you were feverish again with your (y/h/c) hair drenched in cold sweat. On top of that, you were absolutely freezing. Delirious, you sat on the bed, trying to figure out if it was just your fever or if there was any other reason for feeling so cold - and there was! The window you left open just a smidge in the evening was now opened all the way, filling the room with chilling autumn breeze.

“Dammit,” you muttered and mustered all your strength and willpower to get up to close it and while you were at it, maybe take another dose of the anti-fever potion and make a cup of hot camomile tea to warm yourself up. Your consciousness was playing tricks on you. It felt like you kept constantly shifting between being fully awaken and sleepwalking. Who knows, maybe you were sleepwalking. Oh, how you hated dealing with fevers!

Entering the kitchen, you left the lights out. You could get whatever you needed by memory and the room was illuminated by moonlight coming from behind the window anyway. You didn’t notice anything extraordinary at first. It wasn’t until you reached into the fridge to retrieve the potion bottle that you became aware of unusual black dust floating around your body. You stretched your back, and looked at one of the shreds of dust more carefully. Above everything else it reminded you of black ink poured into water except there was no water and it was gently rolling in the air instead.

Mesmerised, your reached out your left hand with the intention to touch it. It felt cold and electrifying and certainly not corporeal because your fingertips slipped through it as if it was liquid indeed. You watched the shred as it rose to the ceiling and that’s when you saw it.

“By Merlin!” you gasped and the scare made you drop the bottle of antipyretic potion to the floor and press your back against the fridge, nearly flipping it over. There was a whole mass of the same black and grey substance covering the entirety of the kitchen ceiling! It looked like jelly or smoke or black ink, you couldn’t really tell. It pulsated and whirled around, first fast as if it reacted to your shock and sound of shattered glass, and then it slowly calmed down and flew in circles around the hanging light, just below the ceiling.

You tried to focus your eyes on it. What was it? A weird magical cloud? Some kind of a magical creature? Was it even sentient? A figment of your imagination? The last option was entirely possible. You knew some of the ingredients you used for your potions could act as hallucinogens if mixed together incorrectly. Maybe you’d messed up the recipe? Even a small mistake could be catastrophic, especially in your lethargic state.

As you considered the options and tried to make some sense in what you were seeing, the potion spilled on the floor soaked into your fluffy socks. Turning your attention to your feet now, you totally missed the moment the dark mass started sliding off the ceiling along the wall, only to shape into a more concrete form. You looked just in time to see it nestle on the floor in a shape of human body. Soon enough, a raven-haired boy with frightened eyes of a fawn stared back at you.

“H-How… Who…,” you gasped, your words not coming together into a sentence at first.

“I’m s-sorry. I didn’t mean to…,” he said in the softest and weakest voice you’d ever heard. Yet, there was something familiar about it and somewhere in the corner of your mind you wondered if you knew him.

You looked around the kitchen, remembering you’d left your wand lying on a table. Quickly reaching for it, you held it in your trembling hand, not really pointed at the pathetic kid, but ready in case the need arises.

“How did you get here?” you asked him with trained wariness of an Auror.

“I–,” he opened his mouth and even in the darkness you could see his chin trembling as he was about to burst in tears any second. “I don’t know,” he squeezed out a choked reply and started weeping.

You heaved in annoyance. What were you supposed to do? And what the hell was the black matter on your ceiling? Was it really him? You tried to recollect all the knowledge about magical creatures, beasts and non-beings alike, that would fit what you’d seen. For a second you played with an idea it could be an Obscurus. The description would fit, but you discarded the thought quickly. There was no way an Obscurial could roam streets of New York at this day and age!

Rubbing your temples in frustration, you thought about your situation for a second. You felt terrible. Your head seemed like it was about to explode and your fever was alarmingly high. To top it off, your antipyretic potion was now spilled over the floor and it took more than hour prepare new one.

“Reparo,” you mumbled and flicked your wand at the glass shards. Saving the bottle was the least you could do. After that you casted another spell on a switch, turning kitchen lights on, and immediately cursed at yourself for having such a dumb idea. Your sickness made you terribly light sensitive and the sudden brightness made your headache even worse. It took a few moments before you readjusted your eyes to look at the boy properly.

“M-Merlin’s beard!” you stuttered in shock, because you immediately recognised him. It was the Second Salemer boy! His hair and clothes were dishevelled and he stared at you with his big, dark eyes. Your first instinct was to raise the wand against him and wipe his memory out. You remembered his mother’s anti-witch propaganda very well and you’d just shown him magic - he needed to be obliviated. Your boss would bite your ass off if you didn’t do it.

As you took a deep breath to mumble the incantation, your eyes rested on palms of his hands. He was holding them against his chest, his hunched, cowering position enabling him to hide them to some extent, but you noticed anyway.

“Oh dear,” shaking your head in disbelief you scrambled towards him and dropped to your knees right beside him. “What happened to you?” You tried your best to speak in gentle voice, but it was hard to mask how disturbed you were by everything. You still had no idea what to feel about his sudden appearance in your apartment.

“N-Nothing,” he replied, avoiding your inquiring gaze.

“Come on, you can tell me,” you encouraged him and to get your point across, you carefully placed your hand on his shoulder. He shuddered and tried to avoid it, but as your hand lingered there, he eased his tense muscles, finding comfort in your touch.

“I-I–… was just reckless,” he added and you knew he wasn’t being honest with you. Realising it wasn’t the best idea to prod, you took a deep breath, low key reminding yourself how much breathing hurt you due to your illness.

“Please, let me–”

Your fingertips tentatively grazed the palm of one of his hands, spreading over his dry skin and tugging on his hand softly. Fortunately he didn’t fight you and let you cup his big hand in the palm of your much smaller one, allowing you to see sore and bloody skin he was trying to hide so desperately.

As you observed the deep, still bleeding cuts on his hands, the weight on your chest got increasingly heavy. Of course he wasn’t being reckless. Someone had hurt him and you had a good guess who it was. For a brief moment you worried you’d start crying as well.

“Oh sweetheart,” you purred and gave him a sad smile. You readied your wand. “Don’t tell your mother, ok? She’d want to burn me at stake.” Your words were meant as a joke to light up the heavy mood, but it wasn’t really working. The tip of your wand lit up and your dragged it an inch above his broken skin, healing it in the process.

His eyes finally met yours. You could almost hear all the questions he wanted to ask but was afraid to. Instead, his lips just fluttered in a nearly inaudible “thank you” as you healed his other hand with magic as well.

“Would you like some tea? I wanted to make some for myself.”

You got up, not bothering to wait for his reply because you were set on making him a cup anyway. Alas, you got up too quickly and your sickness decided to show itself in full force. You suddenly got dizzy and would have fainted if you didn’t lean against the table.

“Damn,” you cursed and covered your face with your hands. The darkness was much more comforting than the aggressive kitchen lights. You stayed there for half a minute, long enough for the young man to question your behaviour. He slowly got up from the floor and made a few steps towards you.

“A-Are you ok?” he asked hesitantly, hoping he wasn’t the cause of your weird actions.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” you waved your hand dismissively, swallowed, although the inside of your mouth was utterly dry, and continued to the kitchen counter. You still had to make the tea! No matter how many steps you made towards the counter, it seemed increasingly more distant, till all you could see was a messy blur. The last thing you remember was giving in to the gravity as your knees grew weak.

“M-Miss!” you heard the boy’s voice behind your back as he lurched towards you, circling an arm around you waist and stopping your fall. You whimpered, trying to fully regain your consciousness and balance. It took a while and he was still holding you, his heart violently beating in his chest at the physical contact that felt so wrong even though it was him who initiated it.

“T-Thanks,” you said eventually and wobbled towards the table to lean against it once more. He let go of you, but kept close and ready to catch you.

“Are… Are you sure you’re al-alright?” he inquired and watched as you took short intakes of breath to supply your head with oxygen. It was working, but the nasty smell of a spilt potion was making you nauseous.

“I’m sick. Flu or something,” you finally replied when you were sure you wouldn’t puke as soon as you opened your mouth. “I just need to lie down.” You turned to the door and let go of the table. As you slowly walked towards your bedroom, the young man followed you, catching you once again as soon as you staggered dangerously. “You shouldn’t get too close or you’ll catch it,” you mumbled a small warning, but let him hold your arm anyway. The feeling that someone was looking after you after months of loneliness was rather agreeable.

“I’ll be fine,” he dismissed your worries and his voice sounded somewhat strained.

You reached the bedroom and he seated you on the edge of your bed that looked too big for one small witch like you. You immediately started to free your feet from the soaked socks. Thinking about all the mess you had to clean tomorrow morning was making you feel even worse. You were oblivious to the presence of the boy until your eyes rested on him again.

He stood halfway between your bed and the door, his look fixed on his hands as he played spastically with his long singers. If you could focus your attention well enough, you’d notice he was actually rubbing his palms where those cuts were just a few minutes ago. As if he felt your gaze on him, he lifted his chin, looking at you.

“Is there something I can do?” he asked softly.

“W-What? No, I’m… I’m fine,” you replied, although you weren’t anything close to that. You laid your heavy body into your damp bed sheets, once again remembering how much you sweated over night.

“Please,” he uttered and watched you struggle with a duvet. To your surprise he came closer and took the duvet from you, tucking you in so you were covered with it from your chin to toes.

“Y-You really don’t have to do this,” you stammered gratefully. His selfless help was so moving.

“I… really want to.” A smile tugged at the corners of his lips. Before you could ask why, he continued: “You healed my hands and took a leaflet from me earlier. You’ve never done that before.”

You looked at him, pulling the blanket even higher so your mouth was covered as well, as if you were worried what you could come up with. He seemed so happy! You couldn’t afford to break his happiness and illusions by telling him you only took the leaflet because you felt like a living dead and in your normal state you’d avoid him because it hurt too much to get closer to a pitiful human being like him. Not because you felt disgusted by poverty and suffering, not at all. It was because you had no idea how to help him despite hopelessly wanting to.

Only then you fully understood what he’d just said. You’d never taken a leaflet. He knew you. He’d been watching you, noticing your sympathetic yet desperate looks you directed his way. If your face wasn’t red already due to the fever, you’d blush so badly now.

“I wanted to cheer you up. I-I felt bad that no one took one from you,” you commented. It wasn’t exactly a lie after all. You always felt terrible, watching him hand out leaflets and see people avoid him as if he was contagious or something. You used to be one of those people, but if you knew back then how happy it would make him, you’d take a leaflet. You’d take them all.

“I’ll make tea,” he said, the hints of smile that appeared on his face like a ghost before now turning to a full grin. He left the bedroom before you could protest or say anything else.

He got back a while later. It felt like hours had passed, but your notion of time was really messed up, so it might as well be just a few minutes. You laid in your bed with your eyes closed, merely listening to the sounds of his movements. He placed something light on your night table and then something much heavier on the floor. Your eyelids flew open once you heard a peculiar thud.

“The tea’s ready,” he said, gesturing towards a cute china cup resting on the night table. You raised your upper body, propping your torso with your elbows, and looked at him. He still seemed vulnerable and lost, but there were traces of determination in his eyes. “I couldn’t find any medicine though…,” he sighed apologetically.

“I don’t have any. The potion was my medicine. It cools down fevers,” you explained, oblivious to the fact that you shouldn’t share such information with a No-Maj.

“I’m sorry,” he looked away and cowered as if he expected you to hit him any second. It surprised and saddened you.

“Why are you sorry?” You wondered if it would be too much to caress his cheek soothingly.

“I startled you and you dropped the bottle,” he explained. You observed him carefully. It wasn’t him who startled you, it was the weird black cloud. You’d pushed it out of your mind till now, but it was slowly coming back.

“Don’t worry about it,” you coughed a little. “I have plenty of ingredients, I’ll just make more tomorrow. I’d make it now, but it’s a bit of a hassle.” You summoned the sweetest smile you had at your disposal, but he sat by your bed with his chin almost touching his chest and he couldn’t see you. It occurred to you that you had no means to get his attention - you still didn’t know his name!

“I feel stupid to ask only now, but… what is your name?”

“Credence B-Barebone,” he answered, but still avoided your (y/e/c) eyes.

“Credence,” you repeated after him, basking in how pure it sounded and how well it suited him. “I’m (y/n) (y/l/n).” You offered your name in return, once again noticing his lips forming into a small smile.

“I-… I couldn’t find medicine so I got a wet towel,” he said quickly and his cheeks burned with crimson. He reached down to the object he brought with the cup of tea. Looking over the edge of your bed, you realised it was a bucket full of cold water. You had no idea where he got it, but his thoughtfulness warmed your heart. Credence fished out a small towel out of the bucket, squeezed it to get rid of excess water and with a nervous gulp he pressed the cool wet fabric against your forehead without a warning.

“C-Credence, wait,” you giggled and laid back to the mattress. Trickles of cold water ran down your cheeks and temples, soaking into your hair. You noticed how much his hand trembled and for a second you wanted to capture his long fingers with yours in a tight, comforting clutch.

“It’s not the fastest way, but it usually works,” Credence spoke when he overcame the surprise caused by your happy laugh.

“Usually?” you looked at him.

“Lately a lot of kids come to our church with cold or worse. Ma is usually busy with her agenda, so it’s me and Chastity who has to nurse them back to health,” he explained in the longest sentence you’d ever heard him say. “We rarely have money for medicine.”

You looked at him and took a deep breath. You didn’t have to be a Legilimens like Queenie Goldstein to feel the sadness behind his statement. You’d heard from Queenie’s sister Tina that Mary Lou Barebone wasn’t the best mother in the world, but talking to one of her children gave you perspective of how bad she had to be to her kids.

Credence retracted his hand, dipping the towel in water again, and the next time he brought it to your face, he held it to your right cheek. You were no longer sure the blush on your face was caused by your fever. You decided to address the elephant in the room - or at least one of them.

“Credence, do you–… do you realise I’m a witch?” you asked him. It didn’t really matter now. He’d seen you cast spells and you knew you’d have to wipe his memory before he leaves anyway. You might as well learn how he felt about magic in spite of being an adoptive son of Mrs. Barebone.

“I guess,” he admitted and he sounded rather excited.

“And? You don’t mind?” you gazed at him. Credence opened his mouth as if he wanted to share his opinion about it, then closed it again and simply shook his head. That was it, but you could swear there was much more he wanted to tell you.

“We aren’t all bad people like your mother says, Credence. We’re just like anyone else, except we can do magic,” you exhaled and closed your eyes. You heard a splish-splash of water and the next time the wet towel came in contact with your skin, it was just below your collarbones. A soft whimper escaped your lips. You didn’t even realise you had that part of your body exposed.

“S-Sorry,” he panicked and quickly withdrew his hand upon hearing your surprised whimper.

“I-It’s fine, Credence,” you sighed and watched him as he bashfully looked away, ashamed that he allowed himself to get too intimate. The patient he was taking care of tonight wasn’t a small child, it was an adult, beautiful woman.

“Listen, you don’t have to do this. I can handle it alone,” you said. You really appreciated his compassionate care, but you had done nothing to deserve it. Taking a single stupid leaflet was hardly enough and it baffled you he apparently thought it was.

“I want to,” he replied, giving you no space to argue with his unfair logic.

“But it’s really late. You should go home. Your mother–,” you stopped, being well-aware of his reaction. He began to sniffle. Credence knew very well what his mother would do if she found his bed empty. Still, he whined:

“I don’t want to…”

You watched tears run down his cheeks. He tried to stop them, but it was like a snowball rolling down a slope, getting bigger and bigger each second. Soon he was choking on tears and you could not overlook it any longer.

“Come'ere,” you whispered and opened your arms welcomingly. He looked at you and because he couldn’t see much through his tears, you carefully tugged on his wrists, pulling him closer. He let out a choked breath, but he gave in to your invitation. Soon enough he lied on the bed next to you, his face pressed against the right side of your neck, weeping softly as you ruffled his hair with loving affection. You had no idea what got into you, but it hardly mattered now. He needed comfort and you’d decided to give it to him.

“Thank y-you,” he sniffled quietly into the crook of your neck. It baffled you how after all that went down he still felt the need to utter words of gratitude. They weren’t necessary.

“Shhh, honey, it’s alright. I’m here,” you cooed, hardly able to breathe under his weight, but you grabbed the duvet and covered his trembling body with it, getting rid of the sole barrier separating your bodies in the process. Lost between your fever, his crying and your thoughts about everything that had happened, you eventually drifted off to sleep.

Morning sun woke you up the next morning, finding you in a state of total panic and confusion. You remembered things about the last night, but you couldn’t tell if they were a dream or reality. Wishing so badly to believe it was real, you snooped your flat for evidence or presence of the handsome boy himself, but you were completely alone, as so many mornings before this one. Your bodily temperature was still high, but it wasn’t unbearable like yesterday, so you decided to make another cauldron of antipyretic potion right away.

It took three more days for you to recover enough to go back to work. Although it seemed silly, you kept your window opened over nights ever since, hoping you’d once again summon what you believed to be an extraordinary dream, but Credence Barebone never came. You took it as a proof you were just making things up. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time you had hallucinations under lethargic state caused by fevers. In the end, you decided to forget and not to dwell on it.

Later that week, when your flu was just a distant echo from past, you scuttled along the pathway with a bag full of fresh vegetables and meat. With a free weekend ahead, you planned to make the best of it. Cook something delicious, read a nice book or maybe try to mix a new potion. Just as you wondered if you should stop by a candy shop and buy something for your sweet tooth, you noticed a crowd of people gathered around a stairway leading to the bank. Loud, somewhat annoying female voice reached your ears. It was the same old story, preaching about how terrible your kind was.

The Second Salemers had another rally and that alone made you stop in your tracks. With heart pounding violently against your ribcage, you looked around, searching for the boy you’d always avoided, till your eyes found him standing a bit further away from the crowd with an obligatory stack of leaflets in his hands. You gasped when you realised he was the first one to notice you, his dark brown eyes staring at you from across the street.

You inhaled sharply and for the first time in your life you took a daring step towards him.

***

#credence barebone #credence barebone x reader #credence x reader #credence barebone imagine #fantastic beasts imagine #fbawtft #long post

130 notes · View notes