Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at

http://download.archiveofourown.org/works/10454004.

Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: M/M
Fandom: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Relationship: Credence Barebone/Original Percival Graves
Character: Credence Barebone, Original Percival Graves, Gellert Grindelwald,
Tina Goldstein, Queenie Goldstein, Seraphina Picquery, Mary Lou
Barebone, Chastity Barebone, Modesty Barebone, Henry Shaw
Junior, Newt Scamander
Additional Tags: Modern AU, Credence Barebone Needs a Hug, musician au, what
can't be improved with loud guitars, nothing - the answer is nothing,
depictions and descriptions of abuse, heavy metal will save the
world, who IS that masked man, depictions of coerced consent to
non-sexual intimacy, depictions of violence (not super graphic),
Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort
Stats: Published: 2017-03-26 Completed: 2017-04-15 Chapters: 6/6 Words:
35745

shadowplay
by acroamatica

Summary

Percival Graves' life got a lot less exciting when his metal band imploded and he went to
work A&R for his friend Sera's record label, MaC USA.

But the mysterious young guitarist playing under the name "Obscurus" is about to change
all that. Assuming Graves can fucking sign him.

Notes

for brawlite, who always says the right thing, most especially "YES YOU SHOULD
WRITE THAT". <3

hi, new fandom. sorry in advance, new fandom. i... do this.

See the end of the work for more notes

 Chapter 1

Graves has a headache.

To be fair, hes had a headache nearly constantly since about 1986, and more importantly, since
he woke up this morning. Hes probably fucked up his neck again, he thinks. Headbanging for a
decade straight hasnt done him any favours at 40. But you dont think about that when youre 25
and have long hair and a lot of feelings.

Some headaches are massage headaches - hes got a place near the office that does things in
twenty minutes that feel like they give him back ten years of his life. Others are nap headaches, or
fresh air headaches, or even painkiller headaches.

This one is a whiskey headache.

He blames Tina. It would have stayed an aspirin headache at worst if not for that awful Barebone
woman that shed insisted he have a meeting with, even though hed told her he didnt have the
slightest interest in signing New Salem to anything.

But of course, thered been special pleading. Somehow there always was. Tina knew he was
weak to her when she was genuinely upset about something. So shed brought him the New
Salem CD - formerly the New Salem Song Troupe, hed discovered in the liner notes, and didnt
they just sound exactly the way they looked. Three well-scrubbed kids, smiling like mannequins.
One girl on keys who sings lead, one girl on drums, one boy with a generic Les Paul clone slung
around his slightly hunched shoulders, as though hed tried to look a little more like a rock star but
didnt really know how to unbend. Some Partridge Family bullshit, and not even good Partridge
Family bullshit.

You know I dont do sunshine and rainbows, Goldstein, hed told her. Im on a strict quota of
destruction and chaos. Sera would think Id lost my mind. Cant you sign them yourself?

The look on Tinas face, mingled embarrassment and sorrow, had answered the question well
enough. Its complicated. Shed pushed her hair back, one of her stress tells. Theyre signed
with Henry Shaw over at Worldwide.

Graves had made a face. Junior or Senior?

Junior.

That was worse news. Seniors a sly old ratbag; Juniors a smarmy, slimy L.A. native who writes
the second worst contracts in the business. Graves hates them both, but its Junior hed most
gladly deck.

He knows Tina knows this. And shed looked at him, knowing this, and explained: They want
out of their contract. Juniors said yes, but they owe three albums, so someone has to buy them
out. Picquery wont let me play with that kind of money. But its awful, what hes doing to them.
Theyre earning nothing, I dont know what they live on after taxes. Pennies. Those kids are
wearing thrifted clothes and eating ramen. Its not right, Graves.

Hed sighed. I suppose you have their managers contact details. Hand them over.

He is a good A&R guy, thats the problem. And despite everything, he likes Tina Goldstein and
her bleeding heart. So hed called Mary Lou Barebone, clearly and obviously the leader of the
well-scrubbed pack, and invited her in, even though shed set his teeth on edge just on the phone.
well-scrubbed pack, and invited her in, even though shed set his teeth on edge just on the phone.

The less said about her, the better. Graves doesnt have anything against women with strong
personalities. Sera Picquery would have cured him of it if he did. Still, there is a point at which
strong becomes grating, and grating becomes truly abrasive, and he has an instinctive mistrust of
momagers, especially ambitious ones. Mary Lou Barebone is enough to take a layer of skin off
Graves soul. Hed spent a good couple of minutes of their meeting imagining her in the ring with
either of the Shaws, before deciding maybe somehow the Shaw brand of charm worked better on
her than his. She certainly didnt like him enough to ever sign a five-album deal.

The real dealbreaker was still the music, though. She hadnt liked hearing that. Gave Graves a
speech about family values that had featured the word wholesome no less than five times.

He hates the word wholesome. Oatmeal is wholesome. Its also bland, and boring, and awful and
stodgy and grey, and tastes like sadness. Hed rather, for his own part, be anything but
wholesome.

That much hed certainly managed for himself. He has no doubt of what shed think if she knew
the slightest bit about the past of Mr P Graves, A&R exec for MaC USA. Just to watch her face,
he half-wishes hed introduced himself as Vaal Graves from Deviltomb. Shed probably picketed
one of his shows in the Eighties. She seems the type.

So Graves has not signed New Salem, though he left the meeting with an option to give it some
more thought, and now Tina is mad at him but refuses to talk to him about it, and he has one of the
godawful chirpy Barebone kids songs stuck in his head to the point where hes caught himself
hum-singing sweet summer sunshine, shine down on me under his breath. Its an insult to his
dignity and his taste in music, both of which are better than this.

If he didnt have the headache, he thinks he could probably have gone somewhere good to drink
tonight. Graves has a strict hierarchy of bars, based mostly on how likely he is to be recognised as
anything more than Mr Graves, the regular who tips well. He thinks about a too-friendly
Hollywood smile and open arms, Vaaaaaal! Come in, sit down, we got your favourite, and its
always a shot of Jack they slide in front of him, and he hasnt liked Jack since that weekend in
92, and he just cant tonight. At least here, the carpet may be sticky and the whiskey may be shit
but its not Jack and hes not Vaal, or Val, or Perce, or anything but Graves. Its worth the trade-
off.

You working tonight? the bartender says gruffly, as he pours Graves drink without asking.

Ive done enough, Graves says. Thats why the whiskey.

Jeff shrugs. Thats your business, man. Its a day that ends in y, you can have a drink if you
want. He hands Graves his glass on a napkin. I just wondered cause of the act we got on
tonight. Thought maybe you heard about him.

Graves raises an eyebrow. Should I have?

I hadnt, til he showed up here one open mic night. But you might like him. I dunno.

Someone else waves Jeff down for a refill, and Graves gulps at his whiskey, even though it isnt
any more pleasant that way. He just wants it to work. And maybe this act can get the damn
sunshine song out of his head.

He puts them out of his mind for the space of two more whiskeys, and has almost forgotten about
them completely when theres the sound of someone tapping a finger on a live mic, behind him.

Hi, a hoarse voice says. Were Obscurus. Thanks.

A soft electrical hum. Jeff nods significantly at Graves; he doesnt roll his eyes, but he pours the
last of his whiskey into his mouth and signals for another before hes even swallowed. It tastes a
lot better after three of them.

And then - an explosion.

Graves doesnt quite choke, but more whiskey goes down the wrong pipe than he can shrug off,
and he coughs wretchedly for a few extremely painful seconds. Nobody can hear him over the
guitar.

The guitar. There is one guitar, plugged into a huge network of pedalboards and what looks like a
pedal synth. One guitar, a completely ordinary Les Paul, played by one guy in a hooded black
robe that hides his whole face and looks like its actually been chewed by a pack of wolves
instead of just artfully distressed, and that one guy and one guitar are producing the heaviest
fucking metal Graves has ever heard in his entire goddamn life.

Hes got his bottom E drop tuned so low Graves can feel it in his organs, but the rest of it is some
cockamamie Buckingham tuning, on all the wrong pitches to sit where Graves knows the open
strings should be. The robe makes him look like hes flailing wildly, as he stomps pedals to loop
and chop and skew the sound until its almost unearthly, impossibly dense, improbably complex.
He cant actually be flailing, though. This must be so practised, so instinctual - its a chaos so
calculated it must be perfect.

Graves doesnt realise hes sitting there with his mouth literally hanging open until Jeff nudges the
hand thats still clinging nervelessly to the bartop with a glass of water.

He nods his thanks. Who is this guy? he mouths, over the howling of the Les Paul.

Jeff shrugs. I dunno, Graves lipreads. I pay him cash. I dont know his name. He doesnt chat.
Just shows up, does his set, destroys, leaves again. Good deal.

Graves shakes his head helplessly.

Hes hes gotta sign this guy. His whole life since Deviltomb, everything hes done since he cut
his hair and accepted there was no stopping time - none of it is going to have mattered if he cant
get this guy on his label.

Hed only got the job in the first place, after all, because hed showed up still three-quarters drunk
from waking his dead band, and put his boots up on Sera Picquerys desk, and told her with a
straight face and absolute conviction that she should hire him precisely because hed slept with
nearly everyone in L.A., most of New York, and half of Nashville besides. He knew everyone.
And hed been careful enough in all of that not to catch anything incurable, so obviously he
understood risk management, and what more could she ask for?

It was, he realises in hindsight, possibly inadvisably ballsy as a sales pitch. But since it was the
gospel truth, and hed immediately leveraged it to bring them six of their biggest acts, his career
after that had gone very smoothly. He doesnt fuck nearly as many people these days - whos got
the time, or the energy? - but he still prides himself on knowing everyone.

It burns like the whiskey in his windpipe that he has absolutely no idea who this guy is.

The shape of him in the robe is not anyone he recognises. Hed know a dozen guitarists in this
town by their upstroke alone, the same way hes sure theyd know him. And this guy - Obscurus,
Graves reminds himself - has a distinctive enough way of - almost dancing over the pedal boards.
Hes sure hes never seen it before.
His shoes are polished. That rules out more than three-quarters of the musicians Graves has ever
met. Sensible enough, though. They dont have to be metal if theyre under a robe, and the soles
look thin. He probably has a decent amount of sensitivity through them.

His hands are - really good, really quick, long slim speedy fingers. Probably - definitely, if hes
being honest - faster than his own, which are not ill-suited for guitar and never were, and managed
plenty of impressive things in his time. But they arent Obscurus wickedly fast hands. Graves
thinks hed be able to follow what the guy was doing, maybe, if he could get right up close. Not
from the bar. But there are no rings, or scars, or tattoos, or even helpful moles. Theyre beautiful,
skillful, entirely frustratingly anonymous hands.

Nothing else of him is visible. Hes about six feet tall, and skinny, so Graves is pretty sure hes not
looking at Orianthi. He might as well be looking at Buckethead, but he doesnt think he is.

He should know. He knows everyone in this town. Everyone whos anyone, anyway, and
Obscurus is definitely about to be someone if he isnt already. Graves is going to make sure of it.

He waits, poised on his barstool, for the instant the guy crashes to a thunderous, glorious finish.
Its wild. He wants to scream and holler and stomp, but he doesnt. Jeffs holding open the door
behind the bar that will get him into the employees only area, and from there into the tiny
backstage, and he - doesnt run, quite. Theres too much whiskey in him for running. But he
walks as fast as he reasonably can.

It isnt fast enough. Theres nothing left backstage but the cold draft that tells Graves that
Obscurus, whoever he might be, booked it out the stage door not two minutes ago.

Graves grits his teeth, and pulls out his phone, and opens his calendar. On next Fridays date, he
types, simply, OBSCURUS.

He can wait. But not forever. Its going to happen. Hes going to meet Obscurus, and talk to him,
and sign him to make two or three transcendent albums for MaC, and thats all there is to it.

---

Its a hell of a week, in between. Tina is still giving him the silent treatment and her patented
Tragedy Eyes, and hes a little bit over it and still cant see his way clear to signing a big enough
cheque to save the heartwarming orphans of New Salem. If he didnt have to buy out a Shaw
contract, maybe, maybe, but it grinds his gears too much to pay that much above market value for
an act that needs to be rebuilt from the ground up to have any chance of being marketable. Theres
just no money in good Christian family values these days.

He does try. He gives the CD another listen, and really listens, even to that blasted sunshine song
that always sticks the pre-chorus in his head for a few hours, and devotes some serious thought to
what he would recommend to them as a real success strategy. Its not impossible. They could
make something out of the lead girl, Chastity - Chastity, he thinks, really?, but then theres
Modesty on drums, and Faith and Prudence and Hope and Patience and Charity in the backing
vox, and by the time he properly internalises that the gawky, sharp-faced kid on guitar is called
Credence hes almost numb to it. Anyway, he thinks, hes not really one to talk, having gone
around calling himself Vaal for ten years because it was the only metal thing you could do with
Percival unless you went for the Chevalier Perceval, dungeons and dragons, Holy Diver end of
things, which wasnt Deviltombs schtick. If they could get away with Vaal, Theseus, Desmond
and Serpens (whod been born Patrick, but had thought laterally), he can damn well accept
Credence and Chastity.
Theres nothing special about them as musicians. Chastity has a clear voice that seems like it
should carry, Modestys not too bad a little drummer, and they all have a strong, square sense of
timing that might be exploitable. They could probably produce some squeaky-clean, Danish style
pop. If he hired the right producer and a songwriter with Ivory soap for a soul, it could be done.
But thats more money on top of what hed have to spend to break them out.

In the end, just because he does really like Tina, he hands her a demo tape from one of their less
imaginative Scandi pop contacts, and a sheaf of sheet music. Take it to the Barebones as a peace
offering, he tells her. Get them to woodshed it for a couple of days and Ill go to a rehearsal. If
they can do what I think they can do

Her face lights up, but he holds up a cautionary finger. No promises. I havent talked to Sera yet.
If Im wrong, or theyre too set in their style, then I dont think theres any hope. But - Im giving
them a chance.

Tina scurries off on her mission and he feels better for a couple of hours.

Until she gets back.

Shes white-faced when she drops into his visitor chair. I dont know what to do, she says into
her hands. Graves, you have to help me. Please.

Talk to me, he says, as if theres a choice.

I dropped in on them. Didnt call first. Walked in, I could hear them playing, and then they
stopped and - she was screaming at them, about how theyll never get a better contract if they
cant play the songs right. I opened the door - She swallows. I watched her hit Credence right
across the face. The rest of them were just. Just watching, like it happens all the time and he
didnt even look up, just. He just took it.

He narrows his eyes. Did you say something?

She gulps and shakes her head. I couldnt. The way she looked at me - I was scared of her. So
I just. I just barged in like I hadnt seen a thing and acted all sunny so shed stop and give him a
few minutes. Gave them the music and asked them what you told me to - she didnt like the idea
much, playing someone elses songs. I think shes afraid its a slippery slope that might lead to sin.
But Credence took the tapes and said theyd try. And boy did she give him a look for that, so I
probably just made it worse. She sighs deeply. Anyway. Friday at 2, they said, go have a
listen.

Graves steeples his fingers and presses his mouth to them while he watches Tina sag in the chair.

You know I cant just sign over almost a quarter of our budget because someones mother is
smacking them around, he says finally.

I know. She scrubs her hands over her face. I know, Graves. I know.

You cant save everyone. He tries to be gentle, but its the truth, and the truth isnt usually
gentle. Hes watched too many bands crash and burn that had more talent in them than these kids
do.

I know. She hauls herself to her feet, then, and sighs: 2pm Friday. Please at least try.

Is that not exactly what Im doing? he calls after her, but she doesnt turn around.

At 1.45 on Friday, with his nicest suit on, he pulls up outside the community hall next to the little
church where, according to his research, New Salem started out as an offshoot of the childrens
choir. As though they know, somehow, that its him, he can hear Chastity about to hit the chorus:
Sweet summer sunshine, shine down on me - take me to the place where I am - meant to be -

He hurries through the parking lot before it can infect him again.

Inside, the hall smells of musty carpet and wax crayons. There are a dozen unevenly coloured-in
depictions of Jesus suffering on the cross pinned neatly to a corkboard next to the coat pegs, and
Graves makes eye contact with him and nods in shared understanding.

His mouth is still pinched up in that wry half-smile when he walks into the main room. Mary Lou
already looks as sour as Graves feels, but he forces himself to sound pleasant: How are we all?
Im Percival Graves, A&R for MaC USA. I think you all know my colleague Tina Goldstein.

He shakes hands with Chastity and Modesty first, then Credence, who doesnt seem to want to
meet his eyes. Theres a bruise across the back of his right hand about the width of a pencil, and
he wonders darkly what Credence did to earn it.

Finally, he offers his hand to Mary Lou. She almost looks as though she will refuse it. Bringing up
Tina had been a bad idea. This whole thing had been a bad idea. But hes here now.

So. How did you do with the song I sent over for you? he says. Id like to hear it.

Chastity makes a face. Credence still isnt playing it right.

Credence is staring at his shoes. He mumbles something that Graves doesnt catch.

Speak clearly, Mary Lou chides, before Graves can ask him to repeat himself.

For half a second, there is a little spark in Credences eyes as he looks up at Graves - I think its
better my way, he says.

Graves gives him a considering look. Well, lets hear it, then.

They retreat into their places, shuffling sheet music - he notes that Credence is the only one who
doesnt have parts in front of him - and settling themselves into their spaces. Then they look to
Modesty to count them in.

She clicks her sticks with a surprising amount of gusto. Two - three - four -

It could be worse. It could. Chastity is clearly one of those people who claps on 1 and 3 and has
no natural feeling for syncopation, but she plays as accurately as a synthesizer. Modesty is solid on
the beat, doesnt rush or speed, and puts a good amount of weight behind the kick drum for such a
skinny kid.

Immediately, he knows what Chastity means, though. Credence has the chords Graves remembers
from the demo tapes, but hes throwing in all kinds of extra notes - octaves, sixes, fours - and hes
dropping them in different places in the bars from where the fairly traditionalist demo recording
had put them. The result is a beat that hops instead of stomps, bounces instead of chugs, and a
tune that winks slyly instead of the blank Colgate sparkle of the demo.

What Graves also knows is that Credence knows what hes doing. From the very barest hint of a
smile tucked into the corner of his mouth, and the way Chastity is glowering at the back of his
head, hes - Graves almost laughs. Hes stunting. Its the quietest little rebellion Graves has ever
seen, but theres no mistaking it. Hes showing off for the fancy record company man.
When he echoes Chastitys vocals over the bridge, two bars behind like a call and response,
Graves cant help the satisfied nod. Its not fancy - nothing hes doing is fancy. Hes playing
rhythm, not heroing. But its the right thing to do, and if hes doing it instinctively, then his
instincts are excellent and could be built upon.

And if Graves just keeps nodding until Credence glances up and catches him doing it, well. Thats
fine.

Credence does go pretty red. But he doesnt miss a beat. Well now, Graves thinks, letting his own
face mirror Credences little smile. This is interesting.

They get to the end of the song before Chastity explodes.

Credence, she wails. Why did you play it like that? That wasnt what he gave us. That isnt
what we sound like.

The tiny smile is gone, and Credence is staring at his shoes again, cheeks still as hot as before.

Excuse me, Graves interjects. Maybe you should consider sounding like that. I think that was a
vast improvement on the original, actually. That was some good work, Credence. Credences
eyes snap up to him, but Modestys face falls a little, and Graves says quickly, All of you, in fact.
Im impressed.

But youre not going to sign us, are you, the little girl says. Ma told us. You dont think our
music is interesting.

He doesnt glare at Mary Lou by sheer force of will, but focuses on Modestys accusing look.
Well. You can make some new music, cant you?

If you dont like us, Chastity snaps, just say so.

He holds his hands up, a placating gesture and a shield: I didnt say that. My job is to find bands
who will make records that will sell. I asked you to try this song as an experiment, so I can see
what you would do with a song I could sell no matter who played it. What individual spin you
would put on it as New Salem.

Mary Lou sighs. Fine words, Mr Graves, but I havent forgotten what you said to me. And that is
who New Salem is, not some slick, commercially produced outfit from godless Hollywood. She
spits the last word as though it were a curse.

He wont laugh. He wont laugh. He wont. Mrs Barebone, I understand your reservations, but
as I said, this was an experiment. Now, its given me a lot to think about, so Im going to leave
you to your rehearsal and go think about it, if you dont mind. Ill let you know about an offer on
Monday.

Goodbye, Mr Graves, Mary Lou says. Its the clearest dismissal hes ever heard, and not for the
first time, he wonders about the pride of rejecting any offer that requires the slightest change from
them, if they really are doing that poorly over at Worldwide on Shaw Jrs terms.

Isnt pride supposed to be one of the deadly sins? Hes pretty sure they covered that. But maybe
the humility of poverty offsets it somehow. Hes never really understood how that comes out.

He can feel their eyes on him as he leaves the room. But he lingers, just for a minute, in the outer
hallway, under the watchful eyes of the colouring pages, because they think hes out of earshot.

Hes not going to sign us, Modesty says.

Honestly, Credence, Mary Lou snaps. What possessed you?

He liked it, Credence says softly. He said - he liked it. Then theres a stifled little yelp. Sorry,
Ma, Im sorry, the boy says quickly.

Graves purses his mouth, weighs his options, and then makes a sudden decision - he pushes open
the outside door, noiselessly, then lets it slam shut and strides back towards the rehearsal room.

Sorry, one more thing, he says, as he comes through the inner door. Credence is clutching his
hand, the one with the bruise, and it makes Graves blood run hot. I forgot. I need those sheets
back, and the tape. Since you wont be playing that sort of godless stuff anyhow.

Mary Lou and Chastity glare at him, certain they're being mocked somehow, but it buys a couple
of minutes of scrambling together the music and the demo, and he takes the opportunity to wade
into the middle of the rehearsal space proper, under the guise of collecting all of the printed sheets.
While nobodys watching, he quickly palms one of his business cards and slips it into the pocket
of Credences jacket. That earns him a startled look, but Graves winks swiftly and turns away.

Maybe, just maybe, the boy will get the idea and call. Hes worth more than this band. Graves
could really do something with him in the right setting.

He knows he cant save Credence for long, not today, but maybe. Maybe theres hope for the
future.

This time he really does leave, and spends most of the afternoon in his office, wondering what he
can offer Credence, if he calls. Maybe some session work, if hes a quick learner, or some demo
work or if he wont leave New Salem, then Graves is just going to have to talk Sera into it
somehow. It might just be worth it. It might.

Around dinner time he puts work in the weekday mental box, and mentally tapes it shut. Tonight
isnt for worrying about the fortunes of a serviceable young guitarist who probably just needs a
lucky break. Tonight is for a couple of shitty whiskeys, and this time, catching Obscurus and
begging on his fucking knees until the guy signs with Graves.

By nine hes camped out, back at the bar, with Jeff on alert. Hes been thinking about it, and as
much as it pains him to miss a second of what Obscurus is going to do, hes probably got half an
hour to watch. Then Graves can sneak backstage and be waiting when he finishes.

The show is different, tonight. Its not as blistering, but theres a depth of feeling in it that has
Graves by the throat. Hes never been an unemotional man anyway, much as he has no tolerance
for histrionics at work, and hes not ashamed of the ache in his chest and the stinging in his eyes.
He just wants to know what the deal is, where all of this comes from. He has to be Graves age, or
maybe a little south of it - nobody under thirty could know so much about the deep pervading
melancholy of life.

Theres something off about his hands tonight, though. Graves still isnt close enough to see
properly, but hed swear theres something - holding him back, like his rhythm is off and his
power is ever so slightly dialled back. He hasnt tried any fancy fingerpicking or tapping beyond
what he can do with a couple of fingers. But then, maybe he just doesnt feel like fireworks
tonight. Any judgement is entirely academic when hes still one of the very best guitarists Graves
has ever heard.

Its all he can do to make himself leave his spot at the bar, but he has to. And even muffled and
distorted by distance and intervening walls, the finale of Obscurus short set has Graves shaking
his head in absolute astonishment. This guy is just unreal. Just unreal.
Hes half convinced himself, as he stakes out the door to the stage, that the man who walks
through is going to be someone he knows. Someone he recognises - Tony Iommi, even though
hed swear Tony was in Europe with someone, or Gilby Clarke, or Steve Vai, slumming it.

And then Obscurus comes through the door, still hooded, with his arms full of gear and his guitar
in a gig bag on his shoulder. Excuse me, Graves says quickly, pushing himself off the wall, my
names Percival Graves, Im with MaC USA Records. I really need to talk to you, man, please,
can you spare a second?

Obscurus shakes his head. No, Mr Graves, he whispers. Not tonight. I dont have time.

Please - Graves clasps his hands together in front of him in supplication. Please dont go yet.
Youre amazing. Youre miraculous. Please let me make you rich and famous.

Theres a huff of breath from under the hood, but Obscurus shakes his head even more firmly. I
have to go. Im sorry. And then hes pushing past Graves and out the door into the night.

Obscurus, Graves yells after him, like a jilted lover. Please?

Theres no answer. Graves sags back against the wall, leans his head on the chipped and dirty
paint, and lets himself give voice to a growl of pure animal frustration.

---

I wish there was a way around it, Graves says. I really do. But I dont think I can weasel well
enough to go toe to toe with Shaw the Lesser. Its just going to have to be a payout.

Sera gives him the same look she's been giving him since he and Tina sat down in her office half
an hour ago. And Im telling you, financially we cant, politically we cant - can you imagine
what will happen if we give in? For an act like New Salem? Honestly, Graves, you know better.
We dont negotiate with terrorists. Not for anything less than the next Adele, anyway.

Im telling you. Graves spreads his hands out on the desk. Sera, there's more to them than what
they sound like.

Yes, Tina told me, Sera says, but shes shaking her head. As tragic as it is, I am not running a
charity, nor a shelter, nor a foster home. Im sorry, Val - but I just can't see my way through to it.
The answers no.

Please - Tina says desperately. You can have my recruitment budget for the quarter?

Your determination does you credit, Sera says, more gently. But that's extra specially no. I
need you to boost our roster in other areas. Now. If youll excuse me, I have another meeting I
have to get ready for.

They take the hint, and Graves holds the door for Tina.

Out in the hallway, he gives her shoulder a brief squeeze. Im sorry, he says. I tried.

You really did. She looks up at him. What changed your mind?

I didnt change my mind. I promised you Id try. And I did.

No, but Ive seen you do things only because you promised to do them. That wasnt - you
actually care about them. So what happened?
He wishes he knew, honestly. I cant tell you exactly, he says finally. But lets just say - that
boy. Credence. Theres something special about him, and I dont want to lose track of him. And I
dont know if I can get near him unless I can appease Mary Lou Barebone.

Tina looks glumly at him. Well, I guess well never know now, will we.

Graves taps the side of his nose. Im not out of ideas yet.

That gets a weak smile out of her, which is the plan, and he keeps up the pretense right up until his
office door is shut.

He is out of ideas. Frankly, he doesnt know how he can outmanoeuvre Mary Lou without
information he doesnt have, and cant get without being conspicuous; there cant be that many
Barebones in the White Pages, but its not like he can just call their house and not raise any
questions. He somehow doubts Credence is allowed to have a cellphone. So hes relying on the
little spark of spirit not to have gone out entirely, and to fuel one very slightly reckless decision.

He doesnt really like his odds.

Still, hes going to have to take them. Unless Credence comes to him, hes going to end up losing
two talented guitarists in the space of a week, which is unacceptable. And Graves force of will
has bent the universe in his direction before. Its just going to have to do it again.

---

All the force of will and positive thinking Graves can muster aside, Credence doesnt call. Graves
is sure that its to do with the conversation he made himself have with Mary Lou on Wednesday
after hed finally admitted to himself that he was going to have to stop bluffing, and to the pile of
requests hes making of the indifferent universe this week, he adds the rather faint hope that she
isn't taking it out on Credence. She hadnt even sounded surprised - just disgusted with him, along
with the rest of humanity.

He remembers that hes an adult, and holds onto his temper with both hands and his teeth when he
happens to see Henry Shaw Jr out on the street, and doesnt deliver unto him the right cross he so
thoroughly deserves. Mostly because its been a while since he last saw the inside of a police
station, and if he lets himself hit Harry Shaw just once - well, it wont be just once.

But its a very long and very difficult week, and by the end of it theres really only one thing left
he wants to do with the last shreds of Friday.

Because Graves always, always pays his tab and never causes trouble, Jeff agrees to slip a note
into the envelope he gives to Obscurus. It's not much - please call me whenever you can, any
time, Ill never forgive myself if I dont sign you and his personal cellphone number. He signs it
Val Graves, even though Seras just about the only person he considers enough of a friend to use
that nickname with. Using Vaal would be too much, too dont you know who I am when he isnt
even that anymore, but he finds he likes the idea of Val sounded out in Obscurus hoarse
whisper.

And then he takes his usual barstool, and waits for the magic to begin.

Obscurus set this week is slightly uneven. For the first time, hes playing a cover - a Buckethead
track that hes clearly rehearsed until its developed the mechanical sheen of a technique study. He
sounds amazing, but hes not there. Not really. Not until the second song.

The way he embroiders on it, pulls apart the stacked chords into space-filled arpeggios and
lingering runs, it takes Graves nearly two minutes to be sure of what hes hearing.
Its a Deviltomb song. And furthermore its one of his: its Shadowplay, the big instrumental
seven-minute epic hed argued into existence on Brimstone and Firestrike, because everyone
elses guitarists got to show off and it was well past time. And hed outdone himself. It was a
towering layer cake on the record, seven or eight overdubs, and when they did it live it took him,
two delay pedals, and both of their guitar techs hidden below the stage to even begin to approach
the full complexity.

Obscurus is doing it all, alone up there with his pedal board.

How - how can he be doing it? Its almost like hes put a microscope to Graves riffs and hes
ticking off each electron in its proper place, at a speed so stately that it turns from a whirlwind of
fire into the staggering beauty of a spinning galaxy.

Graves fingers twitch in the shapes of the chords, the irrepressible effects of seven years of
rehearsal; but where Obscurus lands the notes is not predictable enough for Graves to be anything
but breathless, waiting to see where he goes next even on a song he knows better than anyone on
the planet.

Obscurus knows every element, though, with an anatomists perspective on the sleek body of
Shadowplay. Not a thing is missing, and he opens its ribcage for nearly twenty minutes and
points out every single beauty mark on its skin, every perfect crevice in its chest, every drop of the
blood that makes it live. Its the most precious compliment Graves has ever been paid.

Hes mesmerised. So much so that he almost cant move when Obscurus finally drops his hand to
the strings for the very last chord. Hell never make it backstage to catch him, he thinks blurrily -

Before he quite realises whats happened, hes off his barstool and stumbling to the edge of the
stage.

Obscurus, under the robes, tenses, but Graves is a showman, not a stalker: he goes to his knees
next to the monitor in a full Waynes World style were not worthy genuflection.

There he stays, head down, arms out, waiting for something - anything. Everyone else can think,
and probably does, that hes just a drunk businessman overcome with admiration. Its not even,
strictly speaking, untrue. But Obscurus knows the whole truth. Graves knows he does. And when
two shabby but clean and polished shoes appear next to his knees, he holds his breath.

Vaal, Obscurus whispers, above him. Thank you for your song.

His fingertips brush Graves shoulder. And then hes gone.

Graves thinks of his note, and pulls at the strength in that thought until he can, very slowly, pick
himself up off the floor.

---

He cant sleep that night. Hes too sloshingly full of thoughts to lie down without them spilling out
until he thinks hell drown in them.

Obscurus, faceless, nameless, perfect.

Someone still thinks about Deviltomb. Not just thinks. Cares. Loves them enough - loves him,
dare he even think it? - to turn his work, his own magnum opus, into something he never even
imagined it could be.
What can it mean? Is it an apology, is it a homage, is it something more? He wants to scream, as
though somehow Obscurus could hear him, and reply. As though Obscurus could take the scream,
crystallise it out into its most perfect form and return it to him as a glistening work of art.

He doesnt deserve it. Hes old and irrelevant and he cant even save a sad, suffering kid who
needs him because he cant talk his boss into paying more money than she should. He doesnt
deserve a stroke of cosmic luck like Obscurus.

But -

Damn it -

Graves wants him.

On his label - in his life - in his bed, maybe, even. Graves doesnt care what Obscurus asks for
anymore. Not after tonight. He could ask for Graves own heart, still warm and dripping, and
Graves would go find a chef knife. Sex, money, fame, power, devotion. Anything. The world.

But all of that is contingent on Obscurus wanting anything he can offer, and.

If he doesnt.

If he walks away.

Graves cant quite breathe.

Hes not a praying man, but he curls himself into a ball and waits for dawn, and wishes, and
wishes, and wishes.
 Chapter 2
Chapter Summary

Percival Graves' life got a lot less exciting when his metal band imploded and he
went to work A&R for his friend Sera's record label, MaC USA.

But the mysterious young guitarist playing under the name "Obscurus" is about to
change all that. Assuming Graves can fucking sign him.

Chapter Notes

please note i am updating the work tags as i go and as things get worse for our boys.

Dawn brings a certain measure of cold clarity. The TV has switched from infomercials to cocaine-
perky morning shows, and Graves is still on the couch, staring anywhere else but at the blinding
white smiles of the hosts.

Hes gone beyond tired and into some sort of higher plane, but mostly by force of habit he levers
himself off the cushions and sheds clothes all the way to the pool. The shock of throwing himself
into the chilly water of the deep end is enough to slap him back to wakefulness. Ten lengths, until
it starts to feel like work; then he gets a lungful of breath, crosses his legs and sinks to the bottom.

Through six feet of blue water, the sunrise is rippled and distorted, as though hes on another
planet with a thicker atmosphere. He imagines for a moment being light-years away from all of his
problems, all of his responsibilities. Everything is quiet, weightless, nothing but the pulse in his
ears reminding him that hes alive.

He pushes each worry to sit, stinging, in the cavity over his soft palate, and examines them like
gems under a loupe.

He is, of course, older than he used to be, and less influential - maybe. But still influential enough
in his current sphere, if he looks at who hes signed. So theres no point in tormenting himself with
that.

Credence and Obscurus both have their reasons for knocking him back. Its nothing to do with
him in all likelihood. He can keep thinking and keep trying, but its not his fault if they don't take
his freely extended hand.

Credence is an adult. He can make his own choices. He knows Graves wants to help. If that's all
Graves can do, it will just have to be enough, even if it doesn't feel like enough.

With blood in his veins now instead of just music, he can see his reaction to Obscurus covering
Shadowplay for what it was. He likes to think he can take or leave people, in general, but - that
was a two-footed and deeply undignified leap into lonely old man, fuelled by stress and lack of
sleep and the exquisite ache of being so appreciated on one level when he so badly wants
something different.
At least he got it out of his system while he was alone. Small mercies. He can only imagine what
Obscurus reaction would have been if hed actually been able to tell him any of the things hed
been thinking in the dark of night, drunk on emotion.

He releases the breath from his burning lungs in a smooth exhalation and tries to blow all the
worries out with it, into the water to be diluted to nothingness and filtered out with the rest of the
impurities.

And then he pushes himself up off the bottom and surfaces, flinging his wet hair back and
gasping, reborn or at least repaired, and as ready as hell ever be to take gravity back onto his
shoulders again.

---

The end of his good mood, or at least his determination to appear to have one, is sudden and
unforeseen and comes from an entirely unusual corner.

Queenie, who is the best admin Graves has ever had and who therefore cant be fired even if hes
pretty sure she listens in on the switchboard calls, is dropping off the Tuesday afternoon coffee
run. Graves knows shes sweet on the guy who owns the coffee shop, and shed probably go
anyway, but hes made her a deal - he buys her coffee in return for her getting his latte extra hot
and bringing it to him last, along with every bit of gossip she has managed to collect on the way.
Its well worth the price of a skinny mocha with extra hazelnut syrup. People talk to Queenie,
mainly because she listens, and its saved Graves innumerable headaches.

Latte, she says, and deposits it neatly on his desk blotter, chocolate oat square, because I know
you didnt take a lunch break today and Jake baked them fresh this morning; Abernathy is going
for the new manager position Picquery just created in Licensing, even though I dont think hes
qualified; and the reason my sister is hiding from you is that New Salem just got scooped by
Blackwelt.

Graves almost spits coffee all over his desk.

Blackwelt? he says, as soon as he can speak.

Blackwelt, Queenie confirms. And of course its Grinning-Wart behind it.

Queenies been calling him that ever since the meeting six months ago where hed addressed her
alternately as Connie or sweetheart, and then only when his coffee cup was running low. One of
the many reasons Graves keeps Queenie around is that its so interesting and so revealing to see
how people treat her, in comparison to him in full suit-and-tie call-me-Percival mode. So hed
brought her in to take minutes, which she does well anyway, and had done in between coffee
refills with a flawless smile pasted to her face. Only Graves had seen the draft minutes before
shed done a find and replace, and he cherishes the memory of reading Fuckstick von Asshole
proposed that SP consider the possible merits of a merger.

Privately, he agrees with all of her assessments. Gel Grindelwald is the only person in L.A.
Graves hates more than Henry Shaw Jr. Hes got all the ethics of a bought and paid for lawyer,
the morals of a politician, and the smile of a snake-oil salesman. Graves wouldnt trust him alone
with Mother Theresa.

Fuck, Graves says, with feeling. Why didnt I see that coming. He leans on his elbow. And I
bet he took Juniors pants in the deal too.

Undoubtedly. Which would be such a nice thought, if it wasnt him. Queenie wrinkles her nose
eloquently. Teenies pretty sick over it. You know what they say about all those cute boys he
signs.

Graves does know. There are a lot of rumours, and although theyve failed to coalesce into any
kind of lawsuit yet Graves is pretty sure it can only be a matter of time. Its not the taste for twinks
thats the issue, exactly - Graves was so omnivorous for so long he cant care about anyones
sexual preferences so long as they involve consenting human adults. But Grindelwald seems to
feel it adds spice if they owe him something. Preferably their career.

Which raises a terrible, awful possibility... and now Graves feels sick too. You think
Credence?

Thats the kid with the hair, yeah? Queenie mimes the sharp edges of a bowlcut at her temples.
And the guitar? I dont know. That whole bunch look pretty buttoned-down to me, but I could be
wrong.

They are. Its a relief, actually - the nausea passes enough that he can have another sip of his
coffee. I cant imagine Mary Lou Barebone standing for any sort of roaming hands in her
presence. I may be a little vague on what is and isnt a sin these days, but that one I know about
for sure.

Queenie grins at him. Well, then its probably just to piss off the Shaws, which is reason
enough, she says philosophically. I almost cant blame him.

I dont want anyone to win this game, Graves grumbles. Cant he just hold hands with Harry
Shaw and jump off a cliff?

Maybe someday, if youre very, very good. She takes her own coffee cup, and says over her
shoulder, Now, eat your lunch, Mr Graves, and try not to worry about it.

He does more or less as she says, but he cant quite stop worrying.

Credence still doesnt call. Hes not surprised, now. Just sour and annoyed, and spending far more
time than he can afford on might-have-beens.

Obscurus hasnt called him either. This fact could consume him if he lets it, and he knows that, but
theres still one toe poised on the spongy surface of the idea. What can he possibly, reasonably, do
to entice Obscurus to talk to him? Nothing; but that just means he hasnt thought of the right thing
yet.

When, by Friday, he still hasnt, he is worn down and something close to despondent. He grasps
at straws, and in a fit of whimsy that hes sure doesnt suit him, he buys six solid milk chocolate
roses on plastic stems, nicely wrapped like a real bouquet.

All the way to the bar, he feels like an idiot. But its the only plan hes got, and he slips Jeff an
extra fifty for playing along.

He waits in the dark and shabby backstage, perched on the lone folding chair with the sad bouquet
cradled along his forearm, for Obscurus to arrive. Clearly hes on a tight schedule after the show,
but Graves has been doing elevator pitches for ten years and he really only needs thirty seconds, a
minute at most. He can do this. Hes the best A&R guy he knows who still has all his teeth and his
original soul. He can do this.

There is a car engine in the alleyway. It sounds expensive.

It stops. Three doors - the trunk, opened and then shut - and then another door, and the engine
starts back up and purrs away.

Graves stands, just in case, and straightens his suit trousers.

The instant the hooded figure steps in the stage door, Graves lays down his dignity and starts
talking. Obscurus. Man. Im sorry, I sound ridiculous, but you need to know I mean every word.
Youre the best guitarist Ive seen in the last decade, and Im friends with Eddie Van Halen -
please, please, please, Ive already got a contract drafted for you, as many albums as you want,
you can keep your rights, I have a promoter who can get you on tour worldwide, if you dont like
the terms Ill rewrite it, please sign with me. And he holds out the bouquet. I brought you
flowers, thats how much Im willing to court you.

Obscurus steps in - and grabs him by the shoulder, and shoves. You need to leave, he whispers.
Now. Please.

No, Graves says desperately, you dont understand - I cant stop thinking about you - He
doesnt mean to admit it, but it just falls out.

You dont understand, Obscurus says fiercely. Please, Mr Graves, go -

And Graves realises, in a cold drench of adrenaline, that Obscurus isnt angry - hes terrified.

Behind him, the door opens again.

Well, well, well, says an oily and terribly familiar voice. Percival Graves. What a pleasure to
see you here.

Graves feels his entire body tense.

Gel, he says, between his teeth. Long time no see.

Grindelwald is being shadowed, as usual, by his two burly secretaries slash bodyguards, and the
three of them suddenly seem to be taking up all the available space in the room.

Grindelwalds hungry-shark smile doesnt help. Have you had a nice chat with my newest client,
Percival? He glides forward and plucks the wrapped bouquet from Graves hand. Flowers.
How sweet. But not as much inducement as I was able to offer, is it, my dear boy. The last of
that sentence is directed at Obscurus, and Graves sees him twitch.

No, Mr Grindelwald, sir, Obscurus says, to his shoes, and - its the first time hes spoken above
the hoarse whisper.

He feels all the blood drain out of his face. He knows that voice. And like an anvil from heaven,
directly onto his ribcage, it all falls into place and crushes the breath out of him.

Grindelwald chuckles delightedly. Oh, Percival! You hadnt realised, had you?

He cant speak.

But I dont suppose it matters. It was already too late. Grindelwald drops the bouquet on the
floor, raises one pale hand and pushes back Obscurus hood.

In the dim, greenish fluorescent lighting, Credence looks like he might faint. His eyes are
squeezed shut.

You belong to me now, dont you, Grindelwald croons, and caresses Credences dead-white
cheek with the backs of his fingers. And Ill take very good care of you.

Credence is shaking.

A grey mist begins to cloud the edges of Graves vision. Credence, he says. You dont have to
let him do this.

Please, Credence whispers. Just go.

Your chivalry is misplaced, Grindelwald says, with such dark triumph in his voice that Graves
hands form fists all on their own. Hes chosen this of his own free will. To help his family.

Is that true? Graves cant keep the growl out of his voice. Credence, do you want this?

Show him, my boy, Grindelwald purrs.

Credence swallows audibly. Then his face goes blank, like hes put himself away behind a
cupboard door, and - he reaches a trembling hand up. His eyes flicker open, then shut again, and
he presses his mouth to Grindelwalds.

A tear creeps out of the corner of one eye.

It makes it an inch down the sharp plane of Credences cheekbone before Graves feels something
inside him snap.

He doesnt realise what hes doing until he slams Grindelwald into the wall, both hands crushing
the lapels of Grindelwalds suit. Leave him the fuck alone, he spits, his nose an inch from
Grindelwalds. Youre a disgusting predator and he doesnt want you.

Grindelwald smiles. It doesnt matter. Hes mine.

So Graves punches him.

Its not a good punch - he doesnt quite get his fingers in the right place, and his knuckles howl.
But it makes a fairly satisfying sound.

The second one is much better.

Grindelwald spits red on the floor and smiles with bloody teeth. Percival. Assault? Come now.
This is beneath you.

Two sets of hands land on his shoulders and throw him back onto the floor; hes looking up at
Grindelwalds bodyguards, and he snarls a wordless challenge as he starts to stand up. One size
14 loafer kicks him back down.

Leave his hands and face, Grindelwald says calmly. Hell need those when he works for me.
But you may break as many ribs as you like - hes not a singer.

Stop, Credence wails. Please. Dont hurt him.

Come along, my boy, Grindelwald says, in a voice that doesnt allow for discussion on the
matter. You have a show to play, and he needs to be taught a lesson. You understand the
importance of proper punishment.

The size 14 loafer impacts sharply with the side of Graves head.

After a while, he goes someplace else, and he stays there, though hes dimly aware of the
bodyguards leaving and a flash, maybe imagined, of Credences face, white and tearstained.

He doesnt know how long he lies on the floor, with glass shards in every half-breath and blood
soaking warm, then cold, through the fabric of his clothes. It feels like a long time.

And then Jeff is there, a strange grouchy beer-scented angel of deliverance crouching next to
Graves and swearing; he goes away, and Graves goes away too, for a bit, and when Graves
comes back everythings bright lights and sirens and strangers in green jumpsuits asking him if he
remembers who the President is.

Its a stupid question, and anyway talking is too hard. Hes just gonna sleep for a bit.

---

Graves hates hospitals. He hasnt been in one since that weekend in 92, and although so far this
time has involved a lot less activated charcoal and a lot more Demerol, and the nurses arent
judging his life choices quite as hard, he still mostly just wants to go home and crawl underneath
something to die in peace.

Things are very exciting for a few hours until they get him in for an x-ray and decide he doesnt
need surgery, and then they give him enough of whatever theyre sticking into his elbow vein that
he can sleep for a few hours.

He wakes up to early morning daylight, the Real Housewives of New Jersey on very low volume,
and a drift of paperwork spread out on top of his blanket.

Good morning, Queenie says gently. Shes got a clipboard on her lap, but she puts it aside to
pour a glass of water and hold it so he can drink. You know, I almost forgot I was your
emergency contact. I was pretty surprised when the hospital called me last night. Howre you
feeling?

He takes stock. ... Pretty good, for having been hit by an 18-wheeler several times. They tell me
Ill live.

You will. Queenie pats an unbruised place on his forearm. Sera says youre not allowed to
come to work for at least a week, though. And Tina says shell cover for you.

Hes going to be so bored he might not live after all. But he cant take a full breath without
wanting to scream, and hes fairly certain hes been put in this position by professionals because
its the most comfortable hes likely to get, so perhaps eight hours at a desk isnt the best idea yet.

Did they He weighs the best way to say it. Did they tell you what happened?

They told me your bartender friend said you got jumped. He didnt know any more than that.
Three ribs broken, four more cracked, luckily no serious internal damage but enough bruising that
they want to keep you for observation today just to make sure you dont throw a clot. Some head
trauma, no concussion. A couple of nasty lacerations. Nothing that needed stitches. She ticks the
list off on her fingers as she goes. But then she looks at him for a long moment before visibly
deciding to say it: You had your wallet and phone on you still. Two hundred dollars in cash and
all your cards - still there. And all your keys. So it wasnt a robbery. They just kicked the hell
outta you.

That is accurate, Graves admits.

Its strange to see Queenie not smiling. You dont have to tell me. I can fill out all your insurance
forms okay without that - I was doing all right without you even being awake. But if you want to
make a police report I can help you with that too.

No cops. Graves shuts his eyes. If theyre not already involved I was being an idiot white
knight. Walked into something I should have had the sense to walk away from. But He can
see Credences face, in the dark behind his eyelids. I think it was worth it.

Aww, Queenie says, melting slightly. Well. Musta really been something if it was worth seven
ribs.

Its harder to open his eyes again than he thinks it should be. Queenie?

Yeah, boss? She squeezes his hand.

Dimly, he knows this will give the game away, but: Can you ask - maybe ask Tina. Dont send
her. Just tell her someone needs to check on Credence. Shell help you.

Oh, she says in a very small voice, and shes smart enough to have made at least some of the
connections. Oh well. Okay. Of course.

Thanks. The drugs are definitely kicking in now. Im gonna sleep.

Thats a good plan. She tugs the covers up over him. Sweet dreams.

They might be. He doesnt know. He doesnt remember any of them.

He wakes up briefly when a nurse comes in to check on him, and Queenie and the forms are
nowhere to be seen. Theres no reason to stay awake, not when everything still hurts so much, so
he lets the drugs drag him back under.

At first he doesnt know whats woken him up again. Theres no-one in the chair by the bed, and
the TV is off. But then theres a sharp little sniff from over by the door, and he raises his head just
a fraction to look.

Hes expecting maybe Queenie, or Tina, or even Sera.

Hes not expecting Credence, with his hand pressed to his mouth and his eyebrows in an awful
shape.

Hey, Graves says softly, and beckons with the hand that doesnt hurt. Is it safe for you to be
here?

Credence drops his hand and tries to force a smile. It doesnt go very well. Mostly he just looks
exhausted, and guilty, and crushingly sad. I told Ma I was going out ministering to the sick, he
says. Its not a lie, technically.

I definitely count as the sick, Graves agrees. And I cant really sit up, so I would like it if youd
stop being so far away.

Credence unglues himself from the doorframe and comes in. The hand that Graves couldnt see
before is holding a rather sad-looking bunch of red carnations, which he lays awkwardly on the
bedside table as he sits down and pulls the chair up to the bed by Graves head.

You brought me flowers this time, Graves observes.

Credence nods. Im I didnt. Last night. I. He bites his lip hard. I didnt want that to happen.
Any of it. What he did, what they did
What I did, Graves supplies. I know. I should have listened to you. But I couldnt just let him -
you know its assault, dont you?

Credence gives him a flat look. Im sheltered. Im not stupid. I know its wrong - on so many
levels. He sighs heavily. But what could I do, Mr Graves? Its what he wants. He wanted me,
and my music - and and me. In exchange for buying out our contract and giving us a new one
with better terms. And if I give him what he wants... He spreads his hands in a shrug. Ma gets
what she wants, and we all eat, and maybe therell be something left over at the end of the royalty
cheques. Its not the worst bargain, to trade that for. He stares at his knees. For what he wants.

Graves cant do anything without wincing right now, but his expression is just one long extended
wince as he looks at Credence. Can I ask what the terms of your contracts are? Both yours and
New Salems?

I dont know about all of New Salems. Ma signed that, not me. I didnt see it. But from what she
said it really is better than what we had at Worldwide. Credence makes an unconvinced face. It
probably is. I think she mostly went with whatever Mr Shaw suggested when he signed us
because she thought he was handsome.

Didnt work for me, Graves says drily.

Credence gives him half a smile. Youre too worldly, Mr Graves.

Wont you call me Val? Graves implores. Please.

I dont think I should, Credence says quietly. I dont think Mr Grindelwald would like it if
we got too friendly.

He doesnt have to know. He probably says that more harshly than he means to, but the hell
with it. He doesnt own you.

Not exactly. Credences eyes burn into Graves. But. He knew about Obscurus, somehow,
when he called us to offer to sign New Salem. Ma still doesnt know. I had this idea, that - if I
could play somewhere, if I could do something real - maybe someday I could make enough
money to get my own place, or - or at least secretly chip in and help out with the bills so Ma
wouldnt be so angry all the time. I only ever managed to get to those sets at Jeffs because Ma has
her Ladies Bible Study group on Friday nights. I could sneak out, as long as I was back before
she was. Which explains why hed always been in such a hurry. I guess Im lucky Mr
Grindelwald didnt tell Ma. But he told me that I was the whole reason he was willing to take the
chance on New Salem. So he had me cornered from the beginning. He has the full rights to all of
the music I produce as Obscurus, which is all of my income that Ma doesnt control. He has the
exclusive rights to the first album I release as Obscurus, and the first right of refusal on the next
four.

Credences face looks bleaker and bleaker as he keeps talking. Theres a clause that legally
prevents him revealing my identity as long as hes managing all of my income from those records,
but all he has to do is revert that to me and he can name me. And he can tell Ma exactly what Ive
been doing with him. At which point I will either be excommunicated from my church, thrown
out of my home, shunned by my family, or possibly all of the above. And he can almost certainly
kill New Salems contract right along with mine, leaving my family to starve. Credence sighs.
You can see why Id rather not make him angry.

Graves wonders if you can even have a migraine while loaded on Demerol. He feels like hes
trying to.
My God, he says, and raises an arm, despite how it hurts, to make a fist in his hair, which hurts
even more. My God, Credence. You do know how flagrantly unethical all of that is.

Of course I do, Credence snaps. But what choice did I have? You dont think I wouldnt rather
have signed with you? You dont know how many times I almost called you. How close I came.
His eyes are glistening again. I wanted to be yours. I know you wouldnt have ever made me do
any of what he will. I know. And I know hell steal my money, and I know hell touch me, and -
He gulps down the rising tears. I know all of that. I know you would have been good to me.
Thats thats why I played Shadowplay for you. I wish

For a moment he puts his face in his hands.

I wish, he says finally, his voice wobbling, that it could have been different. I wish you could
have saved me like you wanted to. But you couldnt save my family, Mr Graves. And I did what I
had to do.

He stares Graves down, despite how badly his lower lip and chin are trembling.

And Graves thinks he might burst from the amount of feelings hes trying to contain in his
already-damaged body - his own pain, Credences pain, the killing truth that all of this was
destined to end this way - that hed failed this boy before hed ever even tried.

He wishes he could do so much more, but he cant keep himself from reaching out and cupping
his hand over the back of Credences neck.

Im sorry, he says. I know you did.

Whatever Credence might have wanted to say, it is lost; he cant hold himself together any longer,
and even Graves hand wont help. He falls forward and buries his face in the bedsheets, and sobs
like his heart is breaking.

Graves kneads at his neck, and murmurs the occasional soft and meaningless phrase, but mostly
he just lets Credence cry it all out. It takes a while. Graves isnt really surprised. He has reasons
enough for anyone, and so few safe places - and hes safe here, and he knows it. Thats enough
thanks for Graves. More than he deserves.

When the sobs have tapered off to occasional sniffles, Graves says, very quietly, Credence?

Yes?

You dont owe me anything, but can I ask you to do three things for me?

If I can, Credence whispers. What are they?

First of all. He keeps kneading. Its soothing both of them. Ill stay away from you if itll make
your life easier, but I want you to keep my card. Somewhere safe, if youre worried about
anyone finding it. It might be useful to you. I have some pull in this town still, and anything you
invoke me for, I promise Ill back you up. No questions asked.

Credence nods. Okay.

Second thing. I want you to let me work on this situation. I couldnt outthink Shaw, and fuck,
dont I wish I could have - but I know a lot of smart people, and those people know a lot of smart
people. And Im going to have a lot of time to think in the next few weeks. Well keep it quiet.
But if I can, I want to help you out.
That one takes a few seconds. If you find something what will you do?

Will you keep playing at Jeffs? Or is there somewhere else I can leave a message that will get to
you? Because I wont do anything until you can say yes or no, I promise.

I dont know, Credence says. If Im allowed, Ill keep my sets at Jeffs. If Im not, Ill think
of something and tell him.

Done, Graves says. And third. If anything happens, and you need somewhere to go, or a
couple hundred dollars, or a ride home, or even - even just a cup of coffee and a good listener I
gave you my personal number. I want you to remember you can always call me. You dont have
to. You dont ever have to do anything you dont want to, not for me. But you can.

I cant do that, Credence says immediately. I couldnt impose on you.

You wouldnt be. I live alone. I have more money and more time than I know what to do with. If
I hadnt fucked everything up - Graves shakes his head and tries again. I want you to think of
me as a friend, Credence. I know the circumstances make it difficult. But let me be your friend
anyway, even if we cant quite be normal.

Mr Graves Astonishingly, Credence manages a watery but wry smile. Ive never been
normal in my life.

He smiles back. Do we have a deal, then?

Credence sighs. Okay. I guess.

Graves squeezes his neck once more, and then lets go. Now. I dont want you to have to tell a lie
to your Ma. So quote me a Bible verse, or say a prayer for me, or bless me, or whatever it is
youre supposed to do when youre ministering to the sick, and then get home before you catch
any more trouble on my account.

Credences cheeks go pink. ... You want a blessing?

Sure, Graves says. Ill take whatever favours I can get, right now, divine or otherwise.

Okay. Credence thinks for a minute, and then slips from his chair to kneel easily on the hard
floor. He clasps Graves hand between his. Percival Graves, he says softly, the words rhythmic
and rehearsed. I lay my hands upon you in the Name of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ,
beseeching him to uphold you and fill you with his grace, that you may know the healing power
of his love. Amen. Then he stands.

Theres a moment where its clear on his face that hes debating the wisdom of what hes about to
do.

Then he leans in, and kisses Graves gently on the forehead.

Be blessed in the light of God, he whispers. Until I see you again.

I cant call on anything like that for you, Graves murmurs. I wish I could. But - stay out of
trouble if you can, and if you cant, you know where to find me.

Credence gives him a jerky little nod - squeezes his hand again, and drops it, and walks very
quickly out of the room, swiping at his eyes.

The spot on Graves forehead where Credence kissed him tingles, and he reaches up to touch it. It
doesnt feel any different from the rest of his skin.

Perhaps, he thinks, that means all of him has very subtly been changed.
 Chapter 3
Chapter Summary

Percival Graves' life got a lot less exciting when his metal band imploded and he
went to work A&R for his friend Sera's record label, MaC USA.

But the mysterious young guitarist playing under the name "Obscurus" is about to
change all that. Assuming Graves can fucking sign him.

Chapter Notes

please note i am updating the work tags as i go and as things get worse for our boys.

and no, you're not imagining that it started at 4 total chapters, was probably at 5 last
time you looked, and now is 6. i'm just really, really crap at estimating how long a
story's going to be. i didn't think anyone would mind though.

They discharge Graves from the hospital the next morning, just about at the point where he would
actually consider stabbing someone for access to a shower and a razor.

His whole body, it turns out, is connected to his ribs in a million unpredictable ways. Queenie has
to help him into and out of her car, with an impressive amount of strength for someone half his
weight and wearing kitten heels. Then she gets him out of his shirt and into a bathrobe, somehow
without it feeling any more embarrassing than all of this already does, and lets him handle the rest.

The bruising on his ribs is as awful to look at as it feels like it should be, and the hot water only
helps a little, but by the time hes patted himself gently dry and scraped the nascent beard off his
chin, theres a terrific scent of coffee and frying wafting from the direction of the kitchen. He
drags the bathrobe back on, belts it tightly enough to preserve the modesty hell pretend he has for
Queenies sake, and goes to investigate.

So theres a casserole in the fridge, she says, from where shes poking a pan of scrambled eggs.
Its just a hot dish, nothing fancy, but itll stick to your ribs. And I picked you up a few things -
bread and milk and basics - on the way to the hospital, so you have something to take your
painkillers with. Figured Id whip up a little something for this morning, too. Im starving and you
look pretty out of it.

He blinks at her. You didnt have to do that.

She giggles. Its no trouble, honestly. I love cooking, and youll remember it the next time my
performance review comes up.

I will definitely try, he allows.

Now, Tina argued with me, but I put your laptop bag on the couch in the living room because I
know you and I dont actually want you to go nuts. But if you start sending me, or anyone else,
emails at 3am, I will get IT to change your email server password. She scoops a mound of fluffy
eggs onto a plate, adds buttered toast from a stack next to the toaster, and slides the whole thing
onto the table in front of him with a mug of coffee. There you go. Take your pills too.

Credences carnations are a bright centrepiece, sitting in a pint glass full of water. He stares at
them while he shakes painkillers out of the bottle.

I couldnt find a vase, Queenie explains, as she sits down across the table with a plate of her
own.

I dont think I own one.

Well, I guess thats why, then, she says cheerfully. Who brought those in?

He thinks about not telling her, but shell find out eventually anyway, she always does, and its
probably her fault anyway. Credence. So you obviously got in touch with him.

What a sweetheart, Queenie says admiringly. Yeah, I found him - he was out in the park where
him and all those kids usually give out the flyers, you know? I pretended I wanted to hear all
about their church. Told him real quiet-like that it was you who sent me - to see if he was okay.
Well, he looked okay right up until I said that. Then he asked if you were. So I gave him the
highlights reel, you know. He went so white I thought he might pass out. She takes a thoughtful
bite of her toast. I dont think he eats enough. Anyway. He said hed go see you. And I promised
Id go to his Wednesday evening prayer meeting, cause his Ma was looking at us. She grins.
Im gonna bake cookies and make him have three.

Graves looks at her for a few seconds. Queenie, arent you Jewish?

Sure I am, but his Ma doesnt have to know that. She winks at him. Look, it probably counts
as a mitzvah. And this way someone sees him. I thought you might like that.

He didnt tell me, Graves says. The eggs are delicious, fluffy and light and well-seasoned, but
the painkillers are sticking in his throat and making it hard to swallow.

He probably didnt think Id actually go. Queenie shrugs. He looks like hes pretty used to
hearing no from people. Maybe we can give him back some faith in humanity.

We? Graves questions.

She gives him a look. Of course, we. Youre not telling me you wont be staying in touch, Mr
Graves. Not after he brought you flowers.

The look makes it clear that she knows that its a good deal more than just a bunch of carnations
between them, so he devotes himself to his plate instead of replying.

Anyway, Queenie says, pushing the last bit of her eggs onto the last bit of her toast, dont
worry about anything for the next few days at least. Tina and I will keep everything running just
fine, well call you in the unlikely event of an emergency, and otherwise? Rest. And breathe
deeply every now and then, the doctor told me to make sure I reminded you.

I think I can manage breathing. Graves raises an eyebrow at her. I only stopped that one time
in 92.

Thats still one more time than most folks. Queenie stands, sweeps her cutlery onto her plate and
the whole pile into the sink, and leans against the counter as she ticks things off: Now, food,
drugs, laptop, lecture, Tina will be by after school on Monday with your homework, what am I
forgetting?

I assume Im not allowed to drive anywhere, Graves says.

Not today, Queenie agrees. So if theres anything you need, give me a shout and Ill make it
come to you.

Great, he says. A prisoner in my own home.

Just relax, Queenie says. You can look that up if you don't know what it means, r-e-l-a-x, it's
an old folk term.

---

Its pathetic, and he feels very old indeed, but he does spend most of the next few days lying
around the house. He makes it seem marginally less pathetic by at least spending one morning on
the sun lounger next to the pool, and another attempting a marathon of classic action films.

Nobody calls on Monday. He assumes this is because theyre trying not to disturb him, but
honestly he feels increasingly useless and unimportant the longer he goes without hearing from
people, so by Tuesday afternoon hes got his laptop out and hes compiling a list of files for Tina
to bring him. He should at least be able to call people. They dont have to know hes doing it from
the middle of a carefully engineered nest of cushions that makes it easier to stand up.

Hes just hit send on the email to Tina at about four when the new mail alert dings.

Neither he nor his addressbook recognise the sender, dwellinthedarkness@freemail.com - but the
subject line is I dont know what to put here, and his curiosity is piqued.

Dear Mr Graves,

I hope youre feeling better now and that your ribs don't hurt so much. How long will they take to
heal?

Ive never written an email before so I probably sound stupid but I dont have anyone else to
email. I made this so I can talk to you. Do you like the address? 1 Kings 8:12, it's one of my
favourites. :)

Anyway, I had a really good idea - I told Ma that Mr Grindelwald wanted to see me, so shed let
me go downtown. She likes him now because he quoted half of Proverbs at her when they had
their last meeting. I didnt laugh when she said he was a good influence on us.

But I did actually go and see him, and when he let me into his office I asked if maybe I could work
at Blackwelt a little bit, because I was so interested in learning more about the record industry. I
tried to make it sound like mostly I just wanted to learn more about him. That always works on
TV. Maybe he doesn't watch so much TV but he believed me. So now Im working in the
mailroom five days a week, and I do photocopying and run errands and sometimes make coffee
but Im not very good at that. I only know how to make it in the big urn we have at the church.

The good thing is, Mas happy that Im earning a wage and pleasing Mr Grindelwald (I hope I
don't have to please him too much yet) and theres a computer down here that they have showed
me how to use. Im not very good at that either but I can log all the parcels and envelopes and
stuff and when nobody was watching I made this email address. And now when Im here if Im
quick and its not busy I can check it. So now I have another secret.

I think I like this one best.

This definitely sounds stupid, but you said you are my friend, so Im signing this
your friend,
Credence

Graves doesnt want to laugh, because hes discovered laughing hurts a lot, but he does smile at
the letter as he reads it over. Resourceful Credence.

He opens up a separate window and searches that verse.

Then spake Solomon, The LORD said that he would dwell in the thick darkness.

He leans his smile on his knuckles as he starts to type.

Dear Credence,

I do like your address. I can imagine you as a cloud of glory - thats what you sound like, to me,
filling the whole room with beautiful darkness so that nobody can do anything but stand in awe. I
dont know if thats blasphemy. I think God might like to sound like that.

They tell me I probably have about six weeks before I should let anyone hug me. I hope theyre
right. Its not much fun. But I will mend and Ive learned my lesson. And it will be a much better
six weeks if I can talk to you every now and then.

Be careful with Grindelwald. Youve been very clever but hes pretty sharp too. Still, its worked
in your favour, and maybe you can learn some useful things while youre there. Like how record
companies really function - mostly we run on coffee - and where they keep the contracts, and the
best way to fill his desk with garden slugs. Not that you should do that. That would be a bad idea.
I would never recommend a thing like that.

Just the drawer where he keeps his pens.

You ARE my friend, and my friends call me

Val

---

Graves likes to think that since he quit haring around the world with a guitar and ingesting vast
quantities of toxins, and started buying suits and sleeping regularly, he has more of a handle on his
life. Maybe even almost a complete handle, the nice ergonomic grip-friendly kind thats really
good for steering with.

The problem is that all of a sudden there are a lot of things in his life that he has absolutely no
explanation for.

Hes never liked cut flowers. Theyre pointless. But as the bunch on his kitchen table, at which he
doesnt sit, slowly wither, he finds himself at the grocery store, staring at the tubs of carnations,
desperate to bring home another bunch of red ones as though that will keep the originals alive. He
does it, because seriously, theyre $5 and its consuming far too much of his mental energy.

Hes got a song stuck in his head, but its one he doesnt know, one hes only heard once. He
hums it in snatches and sits at home, with a guitar balanced carefully against his healing ribs,
trying to work it out.

He doesnt normally check his email on his breaks, or even that obsessively at work. Hes more
likely to be found with his headphones on, doing my job, Sera, as he goes through whatever
portion of the slush pile has made it all the way to his desk that week. But now hes also flicking
back to his inbox every fifteen minutes or so, with either disappointment or, about once a day,
delight so clear on his face that the office has started to talk. Everyone but the Goldsteins
desperately wants to know who hes waiting for. (Queenie has the sense to keep her mouth shut,
and he knows shes running the betting pool at a tidy profit. Tina just doesnt gossip, so nobodys
asked her - good thing too, because then the game would be entirely up.)

Its not anything big, really. The office is attaching far too much importance to the fact that
knowing that Credence is busy, healthy, and above all, something approaching happy is making
him happy. Graves is pretty sure the fact that he still cant take a deep breath, or touch his toes, or
sneeze without having to bite back a yelp means that whatever enjoyment he can get out of the
rest of his life is fair game.

Everyone who thinks hes got a sweetheart should probably know that Credence still cant even
bring himself to call him by his first name. Hed even offered Percival in case Val was just too
informal, but no, Mr Graves it was and apparently would remain.

Obstinately, he keeps signing his emails with Val, sometimes even Val xx. Someday, he thinks.
Someday hell melt that ironclad reserve.

Tina still doesnt quite understand why Queenie is still going to the prayer meetings, and tells
Graves this any time she thinks hes listening.

Its been three weeks, she says, and Graves realises with a shock that shes right - it has. She
comes back every time and tells me how cute Credence was, leading the meeting, with this
expectant look. I dont know what she wants me to say.

Youre saying it right now, Graves sighs. What she wants, Goldstein, is for you to tell me, so
that it doesnt all come from her, and so that I feel like everyone approves of this thing Im not
doing, and then eventually publically do that thing, to whatever outcome will net her the largest
sum of money for that new handbag she keeps talking about.

Oh. Tina mulls this over for a few seconds. Well, I mean. Im glad and all. Theres a lot more
cookies around the house since she started doing this thing. And Im glad to know the Barebones
arent being slowly consumed by evil over there at Blackwelt.

Believe me, Graves says, any evil that wishes to consume Mary Lou Barebone is going to
have a hell of a first mouthful.

I still wish we could have made it work, though. Tina looks wistful.

We might yet. Did you get a hold of your friend from college? Whatd you say his name was,
Nat? Nate?

Newt. Tina smiles a little ruefully. Almost. He messed up the time difference and called me at
2am. Hes gonna try again later today, he said.

Youd think an entertainment reporter would be better at timezones, Graves muses.

Tinas smile gets more lopsided. Newt gets by on charm. Well. Charm, persistence, and
encyclopaedic knowledge of his subject, but - mostly charm. Anyway. We didnt talk for long but
Ill fill him in tonight and see what he can find out for me. If hes still the same as I remember,
therell be no prying him away from this story. He likes the dangerous ones best.

They dont come too much more dangerous than Gel Grindelwald, in our biz, Graves says
darkly. We only get one shot at this. I hope he knows that.
Tina nods. Ill make sure he does, believe me. Oh. She goes a little pink. He wanted to know
how you know the features editor at Rolling Stone.

How do you think? Graves looks levelly at her. Vegas, 89. I thought she was a hooker, she
thought I was Bono, but by the time we figured it out we were both having too much fun. He
raises one eyebrow. It is fun when people forget he used to be interesting. Any further
questions?

Ill leave them to Newt. She gets up rather hastily. Right. Ill let you know.

Do that. And he hides a smile by turning back to his filing cabinets.

---

Dear Mr Graves,

I hope you dont think this is forward of me but I have a favour to ask.

Mr Grindelwald has been talking to me a lot this week. He wasnt paying very much attention to
me the last little while, which was nice - one of his other big acts was visiting and he was very
much taken up with them. But they went home yesterday. Today when I went to bring him his
coffee he touched my waist and said we needed to talk, and I was a little bit scared. But all he
wanted to say was that he thought I should spend some time in the studio soon and maybe start
work on the new album. He says to tell Ma that he wants me to assist with recording sessions,
which is actually a good idea even though I hate to think that.

The thing is that I already have some tapes. Ive been recording for I guess its a few years
now, when I could. I was thinking of playing them for him so that he could see that Im serious
about this. But Im not sure theyre good enough.

I dont know anyone at Blackwelt who would give me an honest opinion. Im sorry, I know youre
so busy and you have so many better things to do, and please dont feel that you have to.

I would be very grateful if you would be willing to listen to one or two of them, just to tell me if
Im on the right track. I would value your opinion very highly.

your friend,
Credence

---

Dear Credence,

Dont be daft, of course Ill listen to them. Id love to.

What if would you meet me on your lunch break? You bring the tapes, all of them. Ill bring the
lunch. Name the time and day.

yours
Vxx

---

Its all very cloak-and-dagger, in the end. Graves parks his Escalade up an alley a couple of blocks
away, and waits patiently for the slim shape of Credence to appear in his rear-view mirror.
I almost didnt think youd come, he says, as Credence hoists himself into the passenger seat.

Credence gives him a shy smile. I didnt think you would either, he admits. Its its very
good to see you, Mr Graves. Youre looking well.

Better than last time, anyway. Still a little creaky. But I havent gotten in any more fights. He
smiles, so Credence knows hes joking, but also because its a little contagious, how Credence is
smiling. Hes never realised that before.

I brought the tapes, Credence says. He holds out a tin box, the kind that come full of sugar
cookies at Christmas. Its old and dented and has rust spots on the picture of ice-skating children
on the lid, but Graves nods respectfully as though its the Ark of the Covenant.

And I almost forgot, he says, reaching into the back seat and extracting the paper bag hed
collected from Jake at the coffee shop. Sandwiches. I hope you like chicken salad? And there are
sodas, and I think some danishes, or something -

I like all of those things, Credence says gently, as though hes the one who should be calming
Graves down - as though Graves is the one who should be nervous here. It was very kind of you
to do this.

Nonsense. Graves takes a pastry from the bag and peers at it. I think this is a danish.

Im sure its good. Credence fiddles with the lid of the box. Did you want me to put on a
tape?

Please, Graves says. Whichever one you think is the best to start with.

There are quite a lot, Credence says, as he pops the lid off.

There are quite a lot. Easily a dozen, home recordings on 60-minute tapes, each labelled in the
same square and slightly wonky handwriting that must be Credences.

Hes staring at his knees. Ive been working on this for a while, he mumbles. Whenever I had a
little money saved up. Theres a little studio I could sometimes go to, and it would take a while to
get the money together, but I just used the time in between to practise more, so I guess it was
good? But. Nobodys really ever heard them but me.

Graves lifts one of the tapes up, turns it over in his fingers - and then looks back down at the box
and chuckles. I dont think this is one of yours, he says, pulling out the battered old copy of
Brimstone and Firestrike. Was this an object lesson to show yours what would happen if they
didnt behave?

There is colour high on Credences cheeks. Ma would have taken it if shed known I had it. So I
hid it in the ceiling of the basement, with all the rest of these. Its the first heavy metal album I
ever heard.

Oh, Graves says, not so much a word as a breath. Oh.

I didnt realise it was you, at first, Credence admits. But - Miss Goldstein mentioned you were
a guitarist, when she dropped off the music, and I was sure you looked familiar for some reason.

Graves opens the tape, and shakes it out into his lap so he can unfold the cardboard accordion
with the credits and the lyrics, and - yes, there are the four of them, pouting at the camera, hair
fluffed and legs spread to show off their crotches.
God, we were young, he says, almost disgustedly. And such complete idiots, all of us. So
fucking sure wed conquer the world and live forever.

What happened? Credence says quietly.

He folds the cardboard back over his own face. Well. I died.

What? Credences eyes go wide.

No word of a lie. He slides the tape back into its case. Dont mix bathtubfuls of liquor with
pills you cant identify. Or if you do, make sure that one of the strippers youre partying with is
doing it to put herself through nursing school, so that when your heart stops she knows enough to
clear your airway and start CPR.

I dont drink, Credence whispers.

Good man. Dont start. Graves hands him back the tape. That was the fall of 92. After that it
got harder and harder to keep on going. We tried to make one more album, but... the magic was
gone. So we toured it and then we split. And I got a haircut and got a real job, as George
Thorogood says, and heres the man you see before you, boring as the day is long.

Credence is quiet for a minute. Im really glad she saved you, he says eventually.

Me too. So I paid for the rest of her nursing degree, so she could go on to save much worthier
people. Graves smiles. Now. We didnt come here to talk about me. Eat your sandwich and
play me something.

Graves unwraps his own sandwich while Credence rummages through the tin. This one, I think,
he says finally, and holds it up like he expects Graves to tell him no.

Go on. Graves gestures with his elbow to the tape deck.

Credence swallows, and puts the tape in.

Its immediately clear that its a low-quality recording. Theres a hiss, and the balancing is off;
there cant have been an engineer involved. But he listens past that.

What Credence is doing is sinuous and pulsing, like a heartbeat threaded through a whole
circulatory system at once. A trembling vibrato edges into the melody, makes it totter and tumble
into runs like falling to its knees; it is the sound of a body on the edge of collapse. And yet it goes
on, somehow. He tears into a solo on an overdub - pleading, screaming, leave me, leave me alone,
please God have mercy - and then it fades, on a long sustained hanging sus2 chord that makes
Graves throat hurt, as the original melody picks back up again and drags itself through, looping
unavoidable as gravity, to the end.

The food is forgotten. Graves is staring at the tape deck, as though it could explain; and
Credence is staring at Graves.

My God, Graves says hoarsely, and swallows to try to wet his throat.

Is that okay? Credence hands him one of the sodas.

Graves closes his hand over Credences. Im going to be very, very honest with you here, he
says.

Okay. He can feel Credences hand shaking, but hes looking up at Graves with such strained
courage.

Credence Barebone, he says. If you give that song to Gellert Grindelwald, I will never speak to
you again.

Credence shakes his head, completely lost. Is that good? Just - just tell me, do you like it?

It feels like the inside of my head, Graves says. How do you know how to do that, I dont
understand - yes, Credence, yes, I like it, I like it, I love it, I hate it, its genius. Jesus. Play me
another one, right this second.

Okay. Okay. Credence fumbles the tape out of the tape deck. It slips from his clumsy, trembling
fingers - but Graves lunges, despite how it jars his ribs, and catches it before it can hit the ground.

He holds it out to Credence. Here.

But Credence doesn't take it, right away. Hes just looking at Graves, eyes too shiny to be entirely
fine.

Where were you two years ago, he murmurs, almost to himself.

Hey. Shh. And its a gamble, and a stretch in the front seat of a car, and his ribs dont much
appreciate it, but Graves pulls at Credence until he leans across the centre console enough to put
his head on Graves shoulder. I know. But Im here now.

Credence takes a deep and shaky breath - holds it - lets it out. Im all right, he says,
unconvincingly.

He tries to sit up again, but Graves can feel hes still shaking. On a hunch, he doesn't let go.

Credence tries again - and then subsides, with a beaten sigh, and leans hard on Graves as he
tightens his arms just a little around Graves chest. Not enough to hurt.

Well get you free, Graves says. I promise. Just - would you let me borrow those tapes for a
few days? Please? I know you probably dont want to let them out of your sight, but I need to hear
them, all of them, and you have to get back to work.

Against his shoulder, Credence nods quickly. Of course, he whispers. I I trust you, Mr
Graves.

One skinny arm unwraps itself from him, and a clanking weight is pushed into his lap: the tin box.
A few pounds of distilled hopes and dreams, belonging to a kid whos never been allowed to have
very many, and theyre all in Graves lap now without a shred of hesitation.

The symbolic value is so heavy he has to take a deep breath of his own.

Thank you, he murmurs. Ill take very good care of them.

---

He packs Credence back off to work with the rest of his lunch and both the danishes, because
heaven knows the boy needs the extra calories more than Graves does.

The tin box is stowed very safely in his bag, with its cargo so precious that Graves finds himself
glancing over at it all afternoon just to make sure its still there. He wants quite desperately to just
go through them all now, but he has a strong suspicion that if he does, it will end with him in Sera
Picquerys office, making an exhibition of himself that he will never be allowed to forget. Even if
he is right.

He reminds himself, as hard as he can: Credence isnt his yet. And even when he is, not everyone
in the music business is as excited about solo guitar acts as he is. Sure, in his world this is going to
be the event of the year, but the globe will mostly keep on turning. Its not the end of the world if
he takes a day or two over Credences tapes, or if there's nothing he can do about them
immediately beyond just listening to them and trying his best to give Credence some feedback
more professional than oh my God marry me.

But its a close call, tonight. He intentionally leaves his laptop in another room from the good
stereo system, and puts himself in a beanbag chair that feels like the embrace of a lover while hes
in it but hurts like fuck to get out of. So instead of sending some emails hell regret in the morning,
he lies there gnawing on his knuckles, ringing with the music like a crystal glass and ignoring the
tears trickling into his sideburns.

Its a strange mix of emotions behind the tears; all of them are some sort of want, but they conflict
and compound until he can't discern any clear way forward with them. He doesnt even
completely know which feelings are his and which are Credences, reflected and refracted. He just
knows that this music is too damn good.

He cant sleep. He puts them on again, from the beginning.

At 2am, with his self-restraint shredded, he finally writes to Credence.

Theres no way. Theres just no way.

I cant let you give these to Grindelwald. Ive listened to all of them ten times over. He cant love
them like I can. Like I do. Hell give you half the support and none of the publicity you deserve,
and Blackwelt is the wrong label for this masterpiece anyway. Please, please, PLEASE dont let
him have these. I know I sound self-serving but I cant bear it. I cant bear to let these out of my
hands. Your talent is too precious. YOU are too precious.

Hold onto them just a little longer. Distract him if you have to, write something cheap if you can. I
swear Im trying to break you out. Just give me a little more time.

yours
Vxx

In the morning, Credence writes back:

Do you really mean that, Mr Graves?

I have a session with him tonight.

He is starting to scare me. I have to play him something.

Graves thanks fate that the tin box is safe at his house, at least.

I mean every word and more, he sends. Please trust me.

The answer he gets back is just two words, but they feel like a thousand, and they settle in his
chest like a hot stone:

I do.
 Chapter 4
Chapter Summary

Percival Graves' life got a lot less exciting when his metal band imploded and he
went to work A&R for his friend Sera's record label, MaC USA.

But the mysterious young guitarist playing under the name "Obscurus" is about to
change all that. Assuming Graves can fucking sign him.

Chapter Notes

i'd say i'm sorry for this one, but.

These things take time, Mr Graves, Newt Scamander says, in his ear. Plenty of people are
talking to me, but I have to substantiate it all in order for it to be worth anything.

Graves is tired, and he just wants this nice English voice to tell him something good. Can you
give me any kind of a timeline, Mr Scamander?

As soon as I can. You have my word.

Theres a lot depending on this, Graves says. I know you know that.

Yes, Tinas been very clear. Weve spoken about this quite a bit, you know, Mr Graves - I think
shes taken it rather to heart. Newt sounds kind, Graves thinks. He wants him to be. A kind
person is easier to trust with secrets.

She does that, Graves says. Its one of her better qualities, most of the time.

Quite, Newt says warmly. Look, I promise Ill let you know of any developments in the
situation. I do understand the difficult nature of your position. And that of your young friend.
Newt sighs. From what Ive heard, I can see why you were so concerned for him. Do you think
hed be willing to contribute?

Graves bites his lip thoughtfully. I was hoping to keep him out of this since hes so close to the
blast radius, but I can ask.

Could you? Newt says eagerly. If he doesnt want to, I can do without it, but it would be nice
to be able to cite recent behaviour. Of course I wouldn't identify him, but I cant guarantee I can
anonymise him enough that Grindelwald wouldnt know. I quite understand if thats too
dangerous for him.

Graves shudders. I will be very glad when this is over, he says.

Well speak soon, Newt says. Ill do all I can.

Thank you, Graves says.

He stares into space for a long while after the call ends, feeling powerless. It isnt a feeling hes
very used to, and he hates it.

Coffee? Queenie says from the doorway. You look like a man who could use a pick-me-up.

He realises hes slumping and makes himself sit up. Its bad for his ribs. Yes, please. The usual.
He reaches for his wallet. And you get yours, of course.

Oh, dont worry about me, boss. Queenie dimples. While you were gone, Jake found out you
always paid for my coffee, and he just wouldnt let me buy it - he said I can never pay for coffee
in his shop again. Isnt that nice of him?

Graves frowns. But I cant buy your information if I dont buy your coffee.

You know, you could get a lot of gossip for a handbag, Queenie says, and winks at him.

Noted, Graves says. Hes too tired to argue.

Aww, Mr Graves, Queenie says. Im sorry, Im only teasing you. Are you hurting today? Can
I get you something stronger than coffee?

He looks at her for a long moment and contemplates just telling her, in case she can somehow
untangle the mess in his chest that kept him awake so late and is still dragging at him now.

No, he says eventually. I am sore and tired and the situation with Credence is weighing on me,
but I shouldnt take it out on you. I know you were joking.

Hmm, she says. Then she looks at him closer, as if shes just realised something.

Yes? he prompts.

Percival Graves, she says slowly. When were you planning on telling him youre in love with
him?

He recoils, eyes wide and horrified. What - Queenie, what are you talking about?

I cant believe I didnt see it sooner, she says, mostly to herself. And then she shakes her head at
him. You dont think you are, do you. No, of course you dont. Your intentions are pure.

They are. He crosses his arms over his chest, as if protecting himself. Im not - first of all, you
know I couldnt, not if I sign him, that would make me as bad as Grindelwald. And I wouldnt.
Thats not - I dont need that from him, and he deserves better from me. He fumbles for words
for a minute, amongst all the mental disarray. And Im not in love with him. I admire him.
Deeply, on a lot of levels. Hes important to me. And I feel a lot of guilt over the situation hes in.
But my God, Im not - in love.

Okay, Queenie says gently. My mistake, Mr Graves. Ill get your coffee.

She disappears and he immediately feels awful for snapping at her, but by the time she comes
back with the coffee and a lemon tart he suspects might be a peace offering, hes on a phone call
and cant actually apologise.

As a form of expiation, he does at least email Credence.

Can we meet tomorrow for lunch, same time and place? Sandwiches again? I have something to
Can we meet tomorrow for lunch, same time and place? Sandwiches again? I have something to
tell you and I can give you your tapes back.

Vxx

Its hardly the confession Queenie suggested, but its enough to get a quick reply that makes him
feel a little better:

Sandwiches would be perfect. Ill look forward to it. :) - C

And Graves doesnt have to be in love to admit hes looking forward to it too.

---

He is early. Credence is not, pelting down the alleyway five minutes after he was supposed to be
there, but he smiles as he slides panting into the front seat.

Im sorry, he says. Mr Grindelwald caught me and asked why I was in such a hurry. He
wanted to talk about the session we did last night, but I told him I had an urgent errand to run for
Ma and so now hes going to see me in his office after five.

How did it go? Graves asks, as he passes Credence his drink. Did you come up with
something to play for him?

Credence grimaces. I blamed the fact that I didn't have my pedal board and my usual setup, so it
didnt sound like much. But I dont know if he believed me. He kept asking if he could hear some
of my older stuff and I sort of deflected? I told him I was really more interested in working on
this new stuff, and what did he think, and all that. I think he liked being consulted, at least. But he
kept moving in close and trying to get in my space. Its a good thing I dont hold still when I play.
He couldnt get too near to me without risking an elbow.

Graves frowns, disconcerted. I thought he was leaving you alone a little more.

In the office, yes. But there are no prying eyes in the studio after hours. Credence gives himself
a little shake. Anyway, he says with forced lightness, it doesnt matter, he didnt do anything I
couldnt handle. What did you want to talk to me about?

Well. That, actually, Graves says. So you know how I said I had a plan. I started out just
thinking about how to free you from his slimy grasp, but it came to me that actually, you arent
the first to be in those tentacles and you wont be the last. Its a pattern of behaviour and Im sad to
say everyone in the industry knows about it. I certainly knew enough. It is not easy, admitting
that to Credence. We just let it go on because nobody who had proof was bold enough to step
up. And my karma hurts when I think about that for too long. So Graves spreads out his
hands. I want to ruin him. Completely.

Credence nods slowly and seriously. He looks like hes thinking very hard indeed.

I know you have a pretty strict moral code and all. Graves feels guilty even looking at him. So
if you dont want to be involved, or even know about it, I wont drag you into it. But - there it is.
Im going to destroy him. As thoroughly as anyone was ever destroyed. And I cant feel bad about
it. Not when Graves swallows. Not when hes hurting you.

How are you going to do it? Credence says softly.

I have a lot of friends, Graves says. One of them is currently putting together what I am
assured will be a terrific piece of hard-hitting journalism on the career-long habits of Gellert
Grindelwald as regards people over whom he holds power. Another one of them is going to
publish it. In Rolling Stone, for the whole world to see. And He looks Credence in the eye.
Another one, if he wanted to, could provide first-hand evidence that these predatory practices are
still going on today. Anonymously, of course, but. You could bury him. If youre willing to do it
knowing hell know its you, and if your morals allow it.

Credence blinks slowly, his dark eyes fathomlessly deep. You might be surprised what my
morals will allow, Mr Graves. And Im not entirely sure that it wouldnt be better - knowing hed
know it was me. Knowing... the prey animal he was so sure was helpless bit back.

It probably makes him a terrible person, Graves thinks, but hes so fucking proud of Credence at
this moment.

Still, he wont pressure him. Think about it, he says. Let me know in the morning. We have
plenty of other facts to go on if you decide to stay safe, and not one of us will think less of you.

I will think about it. Credence gives Graves the suggestion of a smile. Thank you.

He devotes his attention to his sandwich for a minute, which is a good idea Graves decides to
emulate, and all is quiet for a little while, just the simple appreciation of two hungry people for a
good meal.

Its nice, Graves thinks. Sitting here with Credence, as though they had no greater problems than a
dusting of escaped flour on black wool suiting.

But it cant last. All too soon, Credence is brushing crumbs off his fingers and looking regretfully
at the dashboard clock. I... should get back, he says. Did you bring my tapes?

Ah. Yes. Its a real wrench, more than he was expecting, to pull the tin box from under his seat,
and he cant help it: Are you sure you couldnt let me keep these? Just - keep them for you?

Credence smiles - a little sad, but mostly unbearably fond. Im so happy you liked them. You
have no idea how much that means to me. He takes the box from Graves hands. Dont worry,
Mr Graves. Theyll be yours someday. God willing.

The way Credence clutches the box to his chest helps, though - like its the most important thing
in the world. At least they agree on that.

---

Four hours of his afternoon go by fast, even though theres nothing in particular waiting for him
after them. He feels more relaxed than he did before he saw Credence. Its simple: the plan is in
motion, the wheels are turning, and all Graves has to do is wait and watch everything drop into
place, and the universe will come back into alignment.

He even turns up some classics in the car on the way home, hangs his hand out the window to feel
the air over his fingers - its going to rain, he can see the banks of clouds massing in the distance,
but hell get home first, in plenty of time that he can lie on the couch and watch the drops spatter
on the windows. There is a strange and delicate peace in seeing so far into the future and knowing
hes safe.

By the time the suns down and the cold winds coming in off the mountains, hes got a hot dinner
in front of him; when the storm hits in earnest, hes yawning on the couch and wondering if,
maybe, he should just go to bed and let the rain lull him to sleep.

The blankets are soft and numerous and the mean gusts of wind make the rain sound like the surf,
washing in in sheets like waves, and hes drifting.
And then his phone rings, shrilling sharp into the edgeless dark, and he swears, and rolls to grab it.

Hllo? he says, the syllables still fuzzy at the edges.

For a moment he cant hear anything on the other end. The hiss of wet tires on a wet road, or
maybe just static on the line. And then theres a gasping breath, and a voice so strained, so
choked, he almost doesnt recognise it.

Mr - Graves?

The voice breaks hard on the question. Another awful breath.

Credence? he says. Credence, whats happening? Talk to me.

The noise from the other end of the phone suggests that quite possibly, Credence cant.

Hes heard Credence cry. But not like this.

This is bad. This is very bad, and Graves is suddenly the most awake hes ever felt in his life.

Where are you? he says, already shoving his bare feet into shoes and trying to wrestle a coat on
over his pajamas.

Help, he thinks he hears, although its mostly just a sob. Please - please help me.

Okay. Okay. Where are you? Im coming to get you. Its the only option. Stay put and tell me
where you are.

G-gas station. 67th - and - and Lake.

67th and Lake, he repeats. Okay. Are you safe there?

M-may-be? I dont - I dont know -

All right. Dont move. Hold on. He has to be calm, he has to sound calm. Not like he has his
own heart in his throat. Can you stay on the phone with me?

No. P-payphone.

Okay, he says again, and - stops, and turns back to the linen closet for an armful of towels. Im
coming, Credence. Im getting in the car now, and youre gonna stay where you are, right where
you are, and Ill be there very soon. Very soon.

He probably speeds. He has never cared less in his life. Credences call runs out of time before
Graves is out of Laurel Canyon, and its a small miracle that in the lashing rain and pitch
blackness Graves stays on the road and doesnt hit anything, all the way down the numbered
streets, feeling his heartbeat ticking off the seconds - seconds that Credence is alone.

In time with the swish of the windshield wipers, he thinks, a prayer to anyone listening: let him be
there, let him be there, let him be there.

He sees the gas station, first, neons mostly sleeping but enough light to stand out in the washed
darkness. Then - the phone booth, another set of coloured lights.

Huddled into the wall at the base of the booth, in what little cover it provides, is a sodden,
surprisingly small spot of black.
Graves throws the Escalade over a sidewalk its probably not happy about, and pulls up four feet
from the wall, close enough that he cant see Credence anymore until he leans across and pushes
the door open.

Get in, he yells, over the hammering of the rain.

It takes a moment for Credence to unfold himself, drowned and half-blind. He struggles up to his
feet and in, and Graves puts the Escalade in park and reaches behind him for the towels.

He cant guess at how long Credence has been outside, but hes soaked to the skin and shivering
so hard Graves can hear his teeth chatter even with his mouth closed. Hes blue around the lips. It
hurts to look at him.

More importantly, he almost doesnt seem aware of where he is. Graves turns the heater up to
max, and piles the towels on Credences lap - three of his big bath sheets, soft and fluffy and
above all very, very absorbent. Dry off, he says gently. And maybe take off some of this wet
stuff. He reaches for the dripping sleeve of Credences thin jacket. Here, Ill help you -

The instant Graves touches him, Credence flinches back and whimpers like his hand is a live wire.
Immediately, Graves pulls back, both his hands up at his shoulders in a gesture of surrender.
Okay. Or dont. I wont make you.

All the windows have fogged up completely, so theyre not going anywhere just yet. While they
de-fog, Graves just looks at Credence for a minute, the way a paramedic looks at a triage patient.

He seems to have all his limbs, none of them broken. His clothes are wet, but only with water, and
apart from a rip in the collar of his t-shirt they are whole. He might be ill. Hes probably sober.
Hes definitely scared. Hes definitely freezing.

Hes not talking. Hes almost certainly crying, although theres so much water on his face its hard
to tell. And he hasnt looked at Graves once yet.

Okay. Problems he can fix, in order -

- if Credence wont let him, none of them. But hes going to have to try, before this kid shatters on
him.

Credence called him. Therefore he must want him here. Therefore - it is up to Graves to make this
work somehow.

Youre safe now, he says.

Credence gives a little tiny shake of his head. It might just be a shiver, but Graves doesnt think it
is.

Do you need a doctor?

Another little shake.

Okay. Good. Then let me take you someplace warm and dry, he says, keeping his voice low
and soothing. Anywhere you want to go. Should I take you home?

Credence shrinks back against the door. Please, no, he whispers. Please. I cant.

Shit, Graves says, and he didnt really mean to say that out loud, but - Okay. Okay, Credence.
I wont. I wont, I promise. Hmm. Its past midnight, and with the state Credence is in, both
physical and mental, his options are very few. How about - how about my place?

Hes prepared to offer to drive all night if he has to, if thats what Credence needs him to do.

But Credence gives him the smallest nod.

Thats okay? Graves presses.

Fine, Credence whispers. Its fine.

He doesnt sound like its fine. He doesnt sound like anything will ever be fine again.

Okay, Graves says, even though nothing about this is okay, because they can both play at this
game.

He keeps his eyes on the road. Mostly. Every time he looks at Credence, Credence is staring
blindly out the window, where there is nothing to see and it doesnt matter. The blue in his lips is
fading to bone-white. Hes still shaking, worse and worse, his arms wrapped tight around his own
shoulders and over his own ribs, and Graves - cant think, when he looks at him. He cant.

They pass through the lights of the city and out into the big houses, farther and farther apart,
where the rain gets heavy again because theres less for it to hit on the way down.

In one of the dark stretches, theres a sudden movement from the passenger seat: a seatbelt
unbuckled, small frantic twitches of hands. Pull over, Credence says, hoarse and awful and
desperate.

Graves yanks the wheel to the right and theyre on the gravel shoulder in a second; he puts the
hazard lights on before theyve even really stopped, and Credence sheds his cocoon of toweling
and plunges out into the night, slamming the door behind him hard enough to rock the whole
vehicle.

The hazards blink, blink, blink, and he gets zoetrope moments in the rear-view mirror: Credence
standing, pacing, pacing, head bowed, hand on face, hand on mouth, hand on eyes, hiding,
hiding, rain coming down on his bare white neck; pacing, pacing, stumbling, hands and knees,
kneeling, bowed to the gravel. His shoulders heave.

Graves looks away, out over the dashboard into the rain ahead, to where his headlight beams
dissipate into the night, and he waits. He doesnt know how long. How long does a breakdown
take? His own took two whole years after 92, and he remembers being not that much older than
Credence, curled up in a hospital bed, scared hed die. Scared he wouldnt. Not being able to bear
to be touched, because it reminded him he was flesh; not being able to bear not being touched,
because if someone wasnt touching him he stopped being real.

Credence is still on the gravel, his head resting on his crossed forearms. Graves can see the terrible
staccato of his breathing in the knobs of his spine, standing out through his saturated clothes.

If he wanted Graves to hear him hed have stayed in the car. So Graves doesnt get out, and he
doesnt go to him, even though he has to keep his own seatbelt buckled just to stop himself.

He waits, because he is old, and he understands, and when Credence needs a safe person again he
will find Graves right where he left him, and that is the best thing he can do for him right now.

---

Eventually the car door opens again, and Credence climbs in and hides himself under the towels.
Its not far to Graves house now, and they make the rest of the trip in silence, with Credence still
staring out the window.

Hell ask, later, he tells himself. Now is not the time.

Now, he holds doors, and plays tour guide, and suggests soothing things like warm showers and
dry clothes and hot drinks until Credence finally nods at his shoes and heads for the guest
bathroom.

Graves puts sheets on the guest bed, quickly and very inexpertly, but theyre on, so hes shown a
willingness to make the effort. He raids his own wardrobe for soft, comfortable things he would
sleep in himself, and lays some out on the dressing table. Then, with the shower still going, he
debates the merits of chamomile over cocoa for far longer than anyone needs to, and settles for
cocoa because Credence probably needs the sugar more.

The shower stops while hes mixing the cocoa. Hes sure Credence can hear the tinking of the
spoon on the ceramic, but he makes it louder, like a cat with a bell. If you want me, here I am. If
you want to avoid me, here I am.

But after five minutes, he wanders past the guest room and sees that the door is still open, and the
clothes are still laid out, and light still seeps from under the bathroom door.

Credence, he says, loud enough to carry. There are dry clothes out here, and hot chocolate, if
you want it. You can go anywhere in the house and do anything that pleases you. Im going to
bed - its very late - but if you need anything you cant find, please, come wake me. I dont mind.

He waits for a minute, for any kind of acknowledgement. There is none.

He wants to sigh, but he doesnt - he just lays his hand gently on the wood of the door.
Goodnight, he says. He sets the mug down on the bedside table, and latches the bedroom door
behind him with a click he makes very sure is audible.

His own door, he leaves slightly ajar.

His bed is much less comfortable than when he left it; hes sure its all the thoughts in there with
him now, and their myriad pointy edges.

What can have happened in the ten hours or so since hes last seen Credence? Hed been so
confident, in his own way, and now

The possibilities are everything from unsettling to downright horrifying, and the more he tries to
push them away, the more they crowd in on him, until he feels like screaming. He grits his teeth
and tells himself: you will sleep.

An hour later he is looking at the blinking digits of his alarm clock in a dazed sort of irritation
when theres a sound. A knock, so small and hesitant it almost cant be heard.

At first he thinks hes seen a ghost. But its only Credence, in Graves Berklee sweatshirt and grey
cotton pajama pants, staring down at the carpet.

I wasnt asleep, Graves says. What do you need?

In a voice Graves barely recognises, Credence says, I - cant be alone right now, can I just - can I
-

Graves pats the bed next to him. Stay, he says simply. Its a big bed. I dont mind.
Credence takes a deep and shuddering breath, and Graves is sure hes going to turn and run, but
he doesnt. Instead he steps cautiously across the floor as though it might become lava under him.

Its a very big bed. Graves could sleep lengthwise if he ever wanted to, without the slightest
problem. So when Credence rolls himself under the covers, with his back to Graves, its almost
like he isnt even there. He is so slight, and so quiet.

The only thing that gives him away is the still-constant waves of shivers.

Graves argues with himself for a very, very long time before he finally reaches out - not to clasp,
or to hold: just to brush the backs of his knuckles ever so lightly against Credences shoulderblade.

And the shivers stop - for the space of a held breath, and come back worse, and Graves realises
Credence is crying. Again. Still. Ruthlessly stifled, as much as he can; probably how hes cried for
most of his life.

Neither of them say a word, and neither of them move any closer. But Graves keeps his hand
against Credences back until Credence finally, finally falls asleep.

It takes him almost another hour to follow.

---

When Graves alarm goes, he slaps it into silence and lies there groggy and disoriented for several
seconds, trying to fit himself back into his body. Its far harder than it should be. Everything hurts,
for a start - the chilly, slow ache of things wrenched and not put back right soon enough. But who
had time to pay attention to any of that last night.

He contemplates not getting up at all, just staying in what little measure of comfort he has here and
hoping that his own body heat is enough to make his muscles let go. But the bed next to him is
empty, the covers straightened, and that is enough to remind him with a sick little lurch of
adrenaline - somewhere outside of this bed, there is someone he needs to find.

Its a big, cold world, but he doesnt have to get through very much of it. Credence is sitting on his
sofa, poised as if expecting at any moment that someone will tell him to get up, to leave, to stop
poisoning the room with his presence. And indeed, the instant he sees Graves he hops guiltily to
his feet.

Sit, sit, Graves says wearily. Coffee? The percolator has a timer on it, and its just chugging to
a stop.

No. Thank you. Credence addresses this to his knees. I - Im sorry Im still - He gestures to
Graves clothes, sleep-rumpled, which he is still wearing. Its just, mine are still wet, and -

Jesus, Credence, Graves sighs, and shoves a hand into his hair. Dont apologise to me. You
have nothing to apologise for. You can keep those, for all I care. Although Id probably
recommend something warmer. I dont think its going to be a very nice day.

He bends to reach into the fridge for milk; the stab in half a dozen intercostals and the bones they
hold makes him grunt, and straighten too abruptly, which only makes it worse. He doesnt clutch
at them, because hes learned too thoroughly that that is also deeply unhelpful, but he cant help
the hiss of pain.

Shitfire, he grits out, through the clench of his teeth, and grabs the edge of the counter to distract
himself. Okay. Fuck. Okay.
Its slow to ease. And when he raises his head again, Credence is - still not looking directly at him,
but theres such stark worry on his face.

Im all right, he says, even though hes not actually terribly sure about that. I - dont think Ill
go in to work today, though. Do you need to be anywhere? I can drive you in -

No, Credence says, hard and vicious. I - theres nowhere I need to be. Theres nowhere I can
go. Nowhere that wants me - He shoves a fist against his mouth.

Hey, hey, Graves protests, and comes around the counter. He doesnt touch Credence, not after
last night, but he holds out a hand to hover a few inches from Credences shoulder. I want you.
Here. If I havent made that clear enough, Im sorry. But youre welcome - youre wanted here for
as long as you need. Okay?

A tear slides down Credences cheek.

Very carefully, Graves sits down next to him, still not touching, but close enough to if he wanted
to. You know, he says gently, if you lose any more fluids youre going to need a drip. Come
on, at least let me make you a drink.

Credence sniffs sharply and nods. Okay. Thats something. He can work with that.

He gets back up, and assembles a cup of tea - the chamomile he passed over last night, liberally
dosed with honey - along with his own coffee.

Their fingers brush when Graves hands Credence his cup. Credences hands are terribly cold, and
Graves isnt at all surprised when he immediately wraps both of them around the nearly-burning
heat of the mug.

Now. Graves sits back down and tilts his head so that he can see Credences face a little better.
I dont want to ask. I really dont. But I also dont want to assume, and I think thats probably
going to be worse in the long run, if I do. So. What can you tell me about what happened last
night?

Credence squares his shoulders up a little, and takes a deep breath. After I left you, he says
hoarsely. I was - I was prideful, and I. I thought I could maybe, I thought - I was so sure I could
see the end of this. After what you said. So when he asked me into his office at five, I felt.
Different. Not like me. Like someone who could - ask for more. For better. Who didnt have to
just take what was given, bad or good. He shivers. He didnt like it. He was looking at me like -
like he knew, and I think he did, I think he did know. And when he asked me what was going on,
why my songs were so bad when I played so well live, he didnt want to hear my excuses, he
knew I was lying. And then he - he smiled, and. And he said it didnt really matter what - what
shit I produced - Hes gulping back tears. Just so long as I - gave him - w-what he was paying
for.

Graves feels his hackles rise, and blows a long breath out through his nose to force himself back to
calm.

He pushed me, Credence says, the words spilling out of him now. He pushed me onto his desk
and - I remembered you, and I pushed him back. I t-told him no, Mr Graves, I told him - but he
slapped me, and grabbed my collar, and - and I started yelling, telling him he couldnt, and then -
his secretary came in to see what was going on, and he, he told her to call security, and these four
big men showed up and threw me out on the street with my bag and my coat and told me if I came
back theyd have me arrested.
Credence, Graves says. He is queasy with hatred and rage and disgust and I remembered you, I
remembered you, because at the heart of it - this is his fault. Ill - Ill fucking end him, I swear to
God -

Credence holds up a hand, and Graves falls silent. Credence doesnt need his input now. Hes not
helping. Hes not capable of helping.

So I went home, Credence says, and there is an edge like anger oozing into his tone, the tears
pushed out by something much worse - an awful, brittle, almost conversational lightness. And I
walk in the front door and theres Ma, on the stairs. And she says to me, do you have something
to tell me, Credence, like Im six years old and Ive sassed the teacher. He wipes his eyes
sharply. I said no, I didnt. And she comes down, angrier and angrier, colder and colder: Thats
not what Mr Grindelwald just told me, she says.

Graves hands clench around his coffee cup.

Shes talking about how he called her, and he told her everything, and I say what do you mean
because I really dont know what he told her - and she hits me as hard as she can, knocks me
down, and. His mouth goes very white around the edges. He told me, she says, and Graves
can hear Mary Lous slow, quiet, vicious menace in Credences voice, that you kissed him. That
you tried to seduce him. You vile, wicked - sinful - He waves his hand to indicate that there was
more in the same vein. I always knew there were demons in you, she says. And you chose this
good, this merciful man - and I dont know what happened, I just - I started laughing, I couldnt
help it, and she slapped me again. And.

He swallows, and his voice goes very flat. My bag. Fell off my shoulder. Hit the floor, crash,
and. And the box falls out.

Graves feels his stomach drop.

She sees it. And she grabs it. What else are you hiding from me, you deceitful snake? And she
opens it, and. He swallows again. I guess. I guess she must have - figured out how long it
would have taken to make those, and - I dont know. She pulls one out of the case. He said you
were trying to convince him to make you famous, vainglorious child. Because singing for Gods
glory could never have been enough for you. And she. She starts ripping the tape out of the
cassette, as shes talking.

No, Graves breathes, in absolute horror - and then shuts his mouth, hard, because hes only
making it worse. Credence doesnt need his pain to deal with.

Credence is shaking again, like he was in the car last night. So hard that the tea slops over the
edge of his cup. He doesnt seem to notice. Graves reaches out and lifts the cup out of his hands,
even though his own are shaking too, and puts both their cups on the table. He wants, desperately,
to take Credences empty hands and hold them. But he doesnt.

She goes through each tape, tearing them all apart. As shes telling me how hes so kind, that he
had to fire me, of course, but it wouldnt affect his relationship with New Salem, with her, of
course it wouldnt, it wasnt her fault her son was a - a revolting, unnatural pervert, after all Im
not even really her son am I, just adopted, and anyone could accidentally adopt a monster into
their home, she didnt know - and I cant even feel anything, its like it. It wasnt real. Like I was
dreaming, and any second Id wake up and none of this would have happened - and then she pulls
Brimstone and Firestrike out and looks at it like. Like it was the most disgusting thing shed ever
seen in her life.

Under the mess of feelings Graves is struggling to keep down, a tiny bubble of pride.
I. Credence pulls his knees up against his chest and hugs them for a long moment. I dont
know what - it was like I was possessed, or something, all of a sudden. I just - shed just destroyed
everything, all of my tapes, all of my work, and I hadnt lifted a finger to stop her, but I couldnt
let her have that. He shrugs helplessly. I dont know. I tried to take it from her. I grabbed her
hand. She threw me against the wall - I hit my head, and I fell down, and I couldnt get up again -
I felt. Too dizzy. Too sick. He wraps his own hand around the back of his neck and squeezes
hard. I watched her rip into the tape, and shes screaming about how Im not her child, Im a
demon in human form, and she wont have me in the house ever again in case I corrupt the
children, she casts me out - He sounds like he cant even believe the words hes saying. I just.
I just. I just - it was like I was losing my mind. I almost started to believe her. Like, maybe I am a
demon. Maybe Im evil.

Credence, no. Graves is begging. He doesnt care. Hes officially had all he can take. Dont
listen to her. Please. You know its not true.

Credence doesnt seem to hear him. So eventually I just. I just ran. I ran until I fell down, and
then I got up again and I kept running. And when I couldnt run anymore, I called you. He
swallows. I didnt want to. Didnt want to drag you into it. But I didnt know what else to do.

You did the right thing, Graves says vehemently. My God, Credence, I - I want. I want to do
so many things, nearly all of them violent - but I wont, I promised you I wont punch anyone else,
but. Im so glad you called me. That was. That was good.

Was it? Credence says tonelessly. Now Im just a burden on you.

Graves rocks back, physically shaken. No - no. Youre not. You could never be.

Credence wipes his face with the sleeve of his shirt. Hes sickly pale, under the blotches from
crying, and Graves just - wants to hold him.

I think. I think I need to lie down for a little while. If thats all right. Credence wobbles on his
feet, when he stands, and Graves reaches out to steady him. But Credence pulls away from his
hands. Im fine, he says, too tired to really snap.

Please, Graves tries. We can make this right, I swear to you, Credence -

No, Mr Graves. Credence doesnt look back. I dont think we can.

 Chapter 5
Chapter Summary

Percival Graves' life got a lot less exciting when his metal band imploded and he
went to work A&R for his friend Sera's record label, MaC USA.

But the mysterious young guitarist playing under the name "Obscurus" is about to
change all that. Assuming Graves can fucking sign him.

Chapter Notes

sorry for the delay. my creativity is in retrograde.

Graves calls in to work. Hes exhausted clear through to his bones and he needs more painkillers
than will make it wise to drive. And truly, the main deciding factor: he doesnt want to be there.
He wants to be here, where he can rest his aching ribs and his aching heart, and not where he
would have to pretend that he could concentrate on anything other than Credence Barebone.

He doesnt feel quite as awful as Credence looked, but Credence puts himself to bed and stays
down all morning, and Graves thinks this is wise enough that he does much the same, except he
lies on the couch with all the cushions stacked up under him like hed done that first couple of
very bad days. It keeps him within earshot of the slightly open guest room door. Not that theres
anything to hear.

Graves is too restless to settle properly at first. Credences silence is almost disconcerting, on the
heels of the look hed had in his eyes when hed left the room - its too quiet. So Graves gives in
and lets himself check, every now and then, lingering just long enough to see that he is still asleep,
still curled into a ball with his back to the door. Still breathing. Still there.

He pushes back at the anxious thought that suggests that if he stops looking, those things might
change. Its reasonable to make sure Credence is okay. Its even reasonable to pad in, silent in
sock feet, and leave a glass of water and a couple of Advil on the bedside table, in exchange for
the cup containing last nights cocoa, stone cold and barely touched.

What is not reasonable is to keep any kind of a vigil, even from the living room. He needs to rest
too. So he makes himself lie down, and run through, in chronological order, every drummer,
bassist, and guitarist whos ever played for Whitesnake, starting over at the beginning when he
forgets one.

Inevitably, he falls asleep somewhere between Viv Campbell and Warren DeMartini, with a weak
cloud-filtered sunbeam across his chest.

He wakes up warm, and wonders for a fuzzy moment if the sun has come out properly. It hasnt.
But theres an empty glass in the drying rack next to the sink, and the lap blanket from the
armchair in Graves study is spread out over him.
He cant quite help the incredulous smile sneaking onto his face as he folds it up. This didnt come
here on its own - it would have had to have been looked for. Which probably means hed looked
either pathetic or tormented in his sleep, and thats unfortunate, but - here he has, in his hands, the
soft, fleecy, blue evidence that Credence well. Cares about him is probably putting it too
strongly, but spared a thought for him anyway. A repayment - no. Not a repayment, and he
shouldnt think in those terms either, but its something. Its a gesture. And

Its hope, is what it is. Its hope.

Credence, he finds, is out on the pool deck, leaning on the corner of the railing and looking out
over the valley. Its mostly green after the rain, and the wind is a little bit warmer.

Graves makes as much noise as he can opening the door so as not to startle him.

I guess youve had a look around, he says. Do you like my folly? I bought it with my share of
the royalties when Seven Doors went platinum. One of the only good decisions I made that year.
He comes to stand next to Credence. People keep telling me Im not famous enough to live up
here anymore, but I like the view.

Its a very nice house, Credence says quietly. And a very nice view.

Its too much house, honestly. Itll be nice to have someone else in it.

He means this, truly - it gets lonely, sometimes, even though Graves is not usually prone to
loneliness. There is more than enough space for him to accommodate one guest, even for an
indefinite amount of time.

But Credence looks down into the valley as though hes said something uncomfortable.

Youre very kind, to have me here, he says eventually. I promise I wont outstay my welcome.
Ill go into the city this afternoon and look for work, if youll tell me where I can catch a bus. Im
sure I can get something.

Graves gives the bruise-dark circles under Credences eyes a very hard look. Not today, he
says, instead of not on your life. Give yourself a little time. Youve been through a lot, the last
few weeks. Ill make some calls tomorrow, if you want - Im sure I know someone whos looking
for an extra set of hands whod be glad to have someone as hardworking and conscientious as
you. But today I dont want you to worry about that. You still dont look well. Why dont you
relax a little? Its not a very nice day for a swim, but I have a lot of books and a lot of records and
a truly ridiculously large TV.

Credence shakes his head. I wouldnt know where to begin.

And then a terrific idea occurs to Graves. I know what you should have a look at, he says.
Come with me.

Credence follows him downstairs, to the lower level of the house that holds the garage and all the
storage - and something else.

I know you havent been in here yet, Graves says, as he flips the cover of the keypad lock up.
4991X, he recites, as he punches in the digits, and he glances meaningfully at Credence to make
sure hes got that.

The door beeps, satisfied, and he swings it open, flicking the light on. Ta-dah. The home studio,
and my dragon hoard.
There are more expensive, more complete setups that he knows of amongst even the mid-range
musicians he counts as friends, never mind the stars. But its a big enough room, very well
soundproofed to pacify the neighbours, with wooden floors with rugs and acoustic panelling on
the walls for just the right amount of bounce and just the right amount of dampening. Theres a
drum kit, already miked, a Roland and a Yamaha synth, and a couple of freestanding vocal mics
lined up against the wall; a little booth for isolations, a mixing desk of moderate complexity, and a
shoulder-high wall of road-scarred Marshall amps, Graves trusty companions.

The most important thing, though, is the glass-front cabinet on the back wall. The heavy velvet
curtain is pulled back so the downlights gleam on the curved shoulders of no less than a dozen
neatly racked electric guitars, a couple of acoustics and electroacoustics, and a pair of Fender
basses.

Temperature- and humidity-controlled, Graves explains. I sold a few after we split and I didnt
need them, but I held onto my favourites. He smiles at Credence, who is still looking poleaxed at
the setup. Come here, I want to introduce you to someone.

Bemused, Credence comes to him as Graves opens the cabinet and lifts down a glossy ebony-
black Les Paul with mother-of-pearl and silver inlays up the custom black fretboard and the wear
patterns and chips of many, many nights out. He snags a strap from the bottom of the cabinet and
fits it onto the strap buttons. I think you may be acquainted with my wife, he says, and holds her
out to Credence. Credence, this is Raven - Raven, Credence. Shes the guitar I played on
Shadowplay. And nearly everything else.

Credence reaches out a trembling hand, and too late, too late, Graves sees the way his eyes are
brimming and realises just how delicate his newfound calm had been. His fingertips brush the
place on Ravens hip where the finish has been worn away by years of friction and wrist cuffs and
Graves own sweat, and the bare wood shines through. And then he chokes out, Im sorry, I
cant - Ive got nothing left, nothing. And in a few quick steps he is out of the room and out of
sight.

Graves hears him thump up the stairs, and sighs, feeling himself deflate like a popped balloon.
Damn it all.

Im sorry too, he says, to the guitar. Its not you, old girl. Its not even him. Its me, and my
damn fool bright ideas. Never mind. Another time. He pulls the strap off, drops a quick kiss on
her headstock and hangs her back in her place.

Then he shuts everything up and goes after Credence.

He is too slow to be able to do much. Like the night before, he finds himself staring at a locked
bathroom door.

Credence, he says, because he has to say something. Ill find a way to get you back your
guitar. And your gear. I - didnt think. Im sorry.

Credence, who has nothing, materially or emotionally, who is depending on the generosity of
Percival Graves for even so much as dry clothes, does not answer him.

Graves goes out to the kitchen and assembles two ham and cheese sandwiches, one of which he
leaves on a plate on Credences bedside table like hes done with everything else. And then he
takes the other to his study, props his chin on his hand, and starts making lists.

Clothes, first of all. He leaves the list again, and pulls a dozen or so things from his closet to lay in
a neat pile on Credences bed. Theyre much of a height, even if Credence is narrower
everywhere; Graves clothes might not suit him, but theyll be better than nothing, and this way at
least he can choose.

Then: something to do. It may be a few days until he can secure Credence a job, which now
seems like something of a priority, just so that he can start earning some money of his own. He
doesnt doubt Mary Lou took every penny of his salary from Blackwelt. So, in the meantime - a
half-dozen light and non-intimidating books, and a selection of light and non-intimidating DVDs,
are stacked invitingly on the coffee table. He considers bringing the steel-stringed electroacoustic
guitar up from downstairs and leaving it out too, but decides that that wound might be too fresh.

Third, and most difficult for Graves, who doesnt like unsolved problems: he will give Credence
the one thing he seems to need more than anything else right now. Space.

And so, even though theres nothing much for him to do there, he stays in his study with his
laptop, and tries very hard to think of any way short of burglary to retrieve any of Credences
things before Mary Lou can do anything irrevocable with them.

He hears Credence moving around a bit, and when he goes out to the kitchen with his empty
plate, Credence is sitting on the couch, staring into Three Men In A Boat. Graves just nods,
doesnt comment on how he isnt turning the pages, and leaves again. If he wants to use Jerome K
Jerome as a prop while he stares into space, thats fine.

Around dinner time, he goes out and starts a pot of water for pasta. He makes a pretty mean
speedy bolognese, if he does say so himself, although it is better when he has the time and the
inclination to leave it to simmer for a few hours. In thirty minutes, hes got an extremely
reasonable sort of dinner ready, and sets out some plates on the breakfast bar.

I thought we could just eat up here, he says to Credence, who is still on the couch and hasnt
made much progress on the book. If thats all right with you.

Credence looks up as though hes only just realised Graves is even in the room.

Oh, he says. Im. Not really very hungry.

Of course he isnt. Graves makes himself smile. Thats okay too. You can have as much or as
little as you want. He starts dishing up a plate for himself, hoping that perhaps watching him will
entice Credence to join him.

He gets through the entire plate and Credence still hasnt gotten up from the couch. Now hes not
even pretending to read, just staring bleakly out the window at the sunset.

Should I leave some out for you? Graves prompts.

And again, its as though hed forgotten Graves was even there: he gives himself a little shake,
and then puts the book down on the coffee table.

No, thank you, he says. I think I think I might go to bed early. Im very tired.

Okay, Graves says, because its really all he can say. Its very early for bed. But he did tell
Credence to relax, after all, and what could be more relaxing than sleep? You know where I am,
if you need anything.

Goodnight, Mr Graves, Credence says, as he leaves the room, and at least thats better than
last night.

He tries very hard, as he puts the food away, to also put away the slight sense of resentment. He
cant, he cannot hold this against Credence - and he wont make him do anything, not even eat, if
he doesnt want to, so Graves just has to accept that he will be turned down sometimes. No matter
how much he was hoping for Credence to come up and sit beside him, quiet and companionable,
and share in what he had offered.

He leaves the books and DVDs just where Credence dropped them, and goes back to his study for
a few more hours, until its late and his eyes are stinging from having been open too long.

He thinks hell fall asleep hard tonight, the sheer cliff-drop as soon as his head hits the pillow that
comes with being slightly drugged and completely worn out.

He does wake up, once - and hes absolutely certain that hes not alone anymore, that theres
another person breathing soft and steady in the bed next to him, another body leaching heat into
the sheets, trembling with life and all its catastrophes, tiny and large, and he wants to reach out and
bring them up against him before sleep swallows him up again.

But when he wakes up in the morning, theres nothing at his fingertips but cold fabric, neatly
arranged, and he thinks - he must have dreamed it.

Although hes not entirely sure that the pillows were there, or that the blanket had been tucked
down like that.

Never mind. If he was there, he isnt anymore, and it would be better if Graves assumes he never
had been.

---

He doesnt go in - leaves a message for Queenie, with his gravelliest morning voice, and pretends
to be contagious - but he does work, and after putting everything off yesterday, hes got a full day
ahead of him. Its Thursday, and Thursday is only ever the prelude to the madness of Friday, so he
elects to spend the morning shovelling out his inbox and dealing with everything hes put off to do
later, because now is as good a later as any other later.

But at 9.02, his cellphone rings.

Im sorry to make you talk if youre not well, Queenie says, but - I have to tell you something.
You know how Ive been going to those prayer meetings of Credences?

Yes, he says. And he realises - he hasnt told her. But of course he hasnt told anyone.

I went last night, and - he wasnt there. She sounds genuinely distressed. So I asked his little
sister, and she said to me that hes in disgrace and hes run away. I dont even want to imagine
what that actually means, Mr Graves. But she asked - she said, since Im his friend - if I hear from
him, if I find out where he is, shes really worried about him. Well, Im really worried about him.
Have you heard from him?

Shes so good. He asked her to do him a selfish favour, and here she is, truly upset. He cant let it
go on.

He closes his eyes, because somehow it makes it easier. Queenie, keep it quiet, please, but - hes
with me.

Hes - with you - what? Percival -

Hes with me, Graves repeats. Its not my story to tell, but some things have happened, some
terrible things - and he wasnt safe. So hes staying here. And Im staying here with him, for
now.

Oh my God. Is he okay? Are you okay?

Im - obviously not really sick, he admits. I jarred my ribs very badly yesterday - that was real -
but theyre better today. Hes I dont know what to call it. Im trying to help, although Im not
sure how much good Im actually doing. But hes safe here.

She gives a low whistle, mixed relief from old worries and pressure from new ones. Wow. Well.
Would you - would you tell him Im glad hes safe? And - I guess I dont know now if hell want
anyone from his family to know. But if he does, tell him Im happy to pass on messages, or
anything.

I will, he says. Queenie - thank you.

Dont worry about it, she says. Will you be in tomorrow?

Probably not. Well see how Im feeling.

I gotcha. He can hear her smiling. Call me if you need anything. Talk to you later.

He leaves his phone on his desk, takes a deep breath, and heads out to the living room, where he
can hear the TV on low.

Credence is curled up in the corner of the couch, arms wrapped around one knee. Hes wearing
Graves favourite sweater, the deep forest green cable-knit pullover that is one of the warmest
pieces of clothing Graves has ever owned. It swamps him a little, but hes got his fingers tucked
into the sleeves and it takes Graves breath away how much the sight makes him want to smile.

For the sake of the distant blankness on Credences face, he confines it to a soft glow. That was
Queenie, on the phone, he says. She was asking after you. She went to your Wednesday night
meeting last night - Modesty told her youd run away.

I suppose thats the cover story, Credence says dully, without looking away from the point in
space hes been staring at. Ma would hardly tell her Id been kissing men.

Shes worried about you, your sister. Queenie was too. She really likes you, you know.

Shes very kind. Credence rests his cheekbone on his knee.

I told her you were here. Credence stiffens, and Graves adds quickly, In the strictest of
confidence, of course. She wont breathe a word to anyone without your permission. But if you
want her to tell Modesty - she says she can.

Ill think about it.

That seems like the best answer hes likely to get, so he nods. Is there anything I can get you?

No, Mr Graves. Thank you. Im fine here.

Let it be as you say. Graves sketches a bow. Ill be in my study if you need me.

He forces his mind back to the minutiae of his job, and its comforting, somehow. The world goes
on, even if he doesnt really know what to do about the part of it thats sitting on his couch,
growing increasingly important. Other bits of it are still more or less under his control.

Credence vanishes when Graves comes out to heat up dinner, and Graves would really like to ask
Credence vanishes when Graves comes out to heat up dinner, and Graves would really like to ask
him what hes eating, but he must be foraging something. Logically, he must be. Theres plenty of
food in the house. Hes fine. Graves wont hassle him.

Hes sitting at the breakfast bar, nursing a hot chocolate with a nip of Baileys in it for dessert,
when a shape makes itself known at the corner of his peripheral vision.

Mr Graves? Credence says. Hes worrying at the sleeves of Graves sweater.

Yes?

May I please make a phone call? It sounds rehearsed, like hes been saying it over and over to
himself to psych himself up to actually ask. Id like to try to speak with Ma and find out how
things stand, now that shell be calmer.

Of course. Graves waves at the phone on the kitchen wall as he slides off the barstool. My
number is unlisted and I have a Caller ID block, so you dont have to worry that shell know
where you are or who youre with unless you give her my address. Which I would rather you
didnt.

Shell probably know. Credence drifts towards the phone, looking at it as though its a snake.
She usually makes excellent guesses when Ive been up to anything she wouldnt approve of.

If she approved of me, Graves says, I think Id contemplate death as the most reasonable way
out.

He leaves Credence still staring at the phone, and shuts himself up in his study with some music
on to give Credence some privacy. But even Symphony of Destruction isnt quite enough to cover
the shouting:

Ma, please - no, I - listen, Ma -

And then there is a scream, and a shattering, scattering crash, and Graves hits stop on the music
and is out the door so fast he skids on the parquetry.

There are pieces of telephone strewn from one end of the kitchen to the other, impact ejecta
radiating from the centre: the man hunched over Graves kitchen counter.

Credence breathes in a high, painful whine, and clenches his fist; blood drips onto the granite.

Hey, hey, hey, shh, shh, Graves says, keeping his voice so light, so easy, as he picks his way
through the debris. Its okay. Its okay. Dont move. Shit, who hasnt wanted to smash a phone.
At least you did it properly.

He reaches for Credences bleeding hand - and stops, seeing his bared, clenched teeth, his
squeezed-shut eyes. Can I touch you? I just want a look at what you did here - make sure youre
okay.

Credence jerks his hand up towards Graves, chokes on another breath - whines -

Shh, shh. Very gently, Graves pries his fingers open. Theres a cut, a tear in the side of his hand
where sharp-edged plastic must have bitten, but its not deep. He clenches his own hand over it to
stop the bleeding. Youre okay, Credence, he murmurs. Everythings fine. Its okay.

Credences eyes snap open, and for the first time in two days, he looks directly at Graves - looks
him right in the eye, despite the tears that race down his cheeks. How, he growls. How can
everything possibly be fine, everythings not fine -
Graves shakes his head. Youre here, he says, and he feels naked, in the worst and most
vulnerable way, but all he can be right now, in the face of that look, is honest: Youre safe. And
thats all that matters to me.

Credence sobs, like somethings tearing itself out of his chest - and then he throws himself at
Graves, wraps his arms around his shoulders and clings as though its keeping him alive. One fist
thumps weakly against Graves shoulderblade, a last show of defiance. And then the starch goes
out of him, and hes weeping, weeping like a child, his whole weight hanging off Graves as he
shudders and gulps and chokes.

Very carefully, Graves eases them both down to the floor, until Credence is half-draped, half-
cradled against him. He presses his cheek to the top of Credences head. It feels right, there. It
feels like it should never have been anywhere else.

Shh, he says. Shh, sweetheart. Shh.

They stay there, like that, for quite a long time. Graves legs go numb, and then dead; his ribs hurt.
But Credence still hasnt let go of him, and the one time Graves had shifted his arms around him
Credence had whimpered dont and clutched him tighter. Graves had had no intentions of
letting go anyway, but now he just he cant. This is where he belongs, this is his place in the
world: on the cold tiles of his kitchen floor, leaning back against the cabinets, with Credence
Barebones wet face pressed against his neck, and Graves own hands holding him there,
protected and safe.

That night there is no pretense, no hiding, no dodging; Credence comes to bed with Graves,
unable to fully let go of him for more than a minute or two without his fragile composure
crumbling. There is no question of it being anything more than sleeping, together, and in fact they
dont even undress; but there is also absolutely no question of either of them being willing to leave
the others side.

And if he is the only person in the world who wants to comfort Credence and keep him close, at
least as far as Credence can see, well - that is a problem Graves will have to tackle, eventually, but
not tonight. Tonight they sleep, wrapped up in each other, with Credences head on Graves chest,
his ear over Graves heart.

He might as well listen to it, Graves thinks.

More of it belongs to him than he knows.

---

The morning finds them still tangled, though less completely. Credence has rolled over in his sleep
and is lying on his belly, with Graves hand trapped just under his ribs, where he can feel the rise
and fall of his diaphragm.

Graves lies very still, for a few minutes, just to look at him.

Slack and soft, Credences face is rather lovely. He could do with a few more square meals and a
better haircut, but underneath all the layers of protective wariness and suspicion, and with the hard
chill of depression lifted for the moment - he thinks Credence could genuinely be fairly
devastating.

But it doesnt matter. It doesnt matter at all. Graves has seen the heart of him - has heard the heart
of him. And that is what he fell in love with, really - not Credences face, pretty though it might
be. It was the soul that lived in that music that got Graves, and it is the soul in that music that has
been ripped away from him, with the rest of his old life.

And he is in love. Theres no denying it. Not anymore. Not even faced with the fact that Credence
is in no shape to return it, and Graves cant ask him to. Graves cant ask him for anything - not
when hes taken so much from Credence already.

If he could give Credence his soul back maybe they would be okay.

Then, slowly, the way a trickle of water fills a bucket:

Hes heard the tapes.

He listened to them over and over. Enough to remember, with aching clarity, exactly how the lost
music went.

Hes not Credence, and he doesnt know how Credence did it, but. If Credence cant do it right
now...

Fucks sake, is he a musician or not?

Fucks sake, is he Vaal Graves, or isnt he? Has he completely lost faith in his own skills, or
hasnt he? Or is he just a guy in a nice suit, with a nice haircut, and less soul than Credence has
left to him, and nothing but rust where metal used to be?

He has to be more. He has to be more than that. If he can be more maybe he can be enough.

He slides carefully out of bed - and how many times has Vaal Graves done this, slipped away
from a warm and trustingly sleeping bedmate, because life beckoned and there was music to be
played?

And just like he always used to, he finds a notepad, and scribbles quickly on it: Im downstairs. V
x

And just like he always used to, he bends over the mattress and kisses Credence ever so gently on
the forehead, without waking him.

Barefoot, in jeans and a ratty Iron Maiden shirt, with his hair falling soft around his temples and a
cup of coffee in his hand, he nods at the sunrise - the sun salutation, he thinks, in Theseus posh
voice, and then chuckles. He hasnt remembered that in years.

He hasnt talked to These in years either. He wonders if These even remembers the six weeks Des
got really into yoga, and spent most of his time upside down against a wall with Serp blowing
weed smoke at him until he got the giggles and fell over.

He shakes his head at himself as he goes down the stairs. Its truly a miracle any of them survived
with as much brain left as they did.

He shuts the studio door behind him, and locks it. The air in here smells like guitars, sweet wood
and urethane varnish and the sour-metal tang of tarnished strings. On the way past, he wakes up
the mixing desk, with its attendant tape deck and laptop, and powers on one of the amps. He lays
out just about every pedal he owns, makes a face at the order theyre in and redoes it, grabs a
notepad and a music stand for jotting down cue points.

And finally, he opens the glass-fronted cabinet, and takes the so-familiar weight of his favourite
guitar off the rack and onto his shoulders, checks her tuning, and clicks a lead into the jack.
All right, old girl, he tells her, as he spreads his feet wide and curls his toes into the carpet.
Time to save a life.

---

It doesnt come easy. Hes down a lot of speed and skill, and more importantly, a lot of calluses;
and as his hands warm up and the skill comes back, the blisters rise on every fingertip. He pulls
the bottle of rubbing alcohol out of the cleaning kit in the cabinet and soaks his fingers every time
he stops to listen back.

By the time hes three hours in hes made a mostly futile stab at half a dozen of Credences songs,
just sketches of the masterpieces he remembers, and hes only bleeding a little. He has two missed
calls from Queenie and one from Tina. He goes on.

At four hours, hes split three blisters, badly enough that the fretboard is slippery and he has to
shift his grip to keep from pressing the strings into open wounds, and theres sweat in his eyes,
and his ribs are throbbing from bending over the guitar, and hes not having any fun anymore.
Theres something he just - cant capture. Maybe hes missing a note in the chords, a line that he
wasnt smart enough to pick out, and he thinks of the jazz notes Credence dropped into that demo
like it was nothing, like his brain just handed him the perfect flavours. Graves isnt tone-deaf, far
from it, but his instincts were built on a different base. He knows what Slayer would do, what
Anvil would do, what Alice Cooper would do, what Motrhead and Judas Priest would do.

He doesnt know what Credence would do.

He goes on.

Five hours and theres almost nowhere left on his left hand that can stand to touch the strings. Hes
starving, hes furious at himself, the smell of rubbing alcohol has burned itself into his sinuses, and
the songs still arent any damn good. Or rather, theyre amazing songs, but he cant fucking play
them. And they arent going to come good. Not in his hands.

He has to face it. Hes beaten. Hes failed.

He dunks his stigmata in the alcohol one more time, watching the clear liquid cloud pinkish and
sniffing back the tears of pain, because he wants to cry, all right, but hes not fucking going to.
And then the CD burner spits out the tangible evidence of his insufficiency, and he drops Raven
onto a chair and blows out a deep breath and heads upstairs.

Credence is on the couch, wearing his own jeans and Graves favourite sweater. Graves can
hardly bear to look at him.

Oh, youre - back, Credence says hesitantly, its one oclock, did you want lunch? I was...
thinking of making some, and -

Graves cant do this. He cant. He cant, he cant, hes just hit a tensile limit he didnt even
know he had, and he tosses the CD into Credences lap.

Here, he says. Its shit. Im sorry.

And he puts his back to the confusion on Credences face, because hell find out soon enough,
wont he - hell work out that Graves cant fix anything, and Graves needs to be somewhere else
when he does so that he doesnt have to see Credence understand.

He goes out to the pool deck, because its as not-there as anywhere else could be, sufficiently out
of the way.
Hes not famous enough for this fucking view, and hes not good enough to be famous enough for
this fucking view.

He drops onto one of the sun loungers and stares out into the lush green valley without seeing it at
all.

Exactly six and a half minutes later, the sliding door hisses in its track.

There are half a dozen soft steps.

And then Credence is on his knees with his face in Graves lap.

Hes crying again, which is just perfect, since all Graves seems to be able to do is make him cry.
But he grabs for Graves hand, and Graves is so weak, so weak; he lets Credence take it, as
damaged and tired and talentless as it is, and he curls up over Credence as best as he can.

Im sorry, he says. Im so fucking sorry.

No, Credence chokes out. Theyre - oh my God, I cant - you did that for me?

He hears Queenie, in his head: Percival Graves. When were you planning on telling him youre
in love with him?

Now, he thinks. Now.

Credence, he says, like the damned soul he is.

Val, Credence whispers. Oh, Val. And he presses Graves blistered, bleeding, burning
fingertips to his mouth. Again. Again.

Maybe maybe he doesnt have to say it.

 Chapter 6
Chapter Summary

Percival Graves' life got a lot less exciting when his metal band imploded and he
went to work A&R for his friend Sera's record label, MaC USA.

But the mysterious young guitarist playing under the name "Obscurus" is about to
change all that. Assuming Graves can fucking sign him.

Chapter Notes

there's probably an appropriate lyric for this, but anyway - i give you the second most
metal gift (after a box of fucking nothing):

the end.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

The laws of physics will bend for any sufficiently determined person or persons, when it concerns
fitting two bodies into a space designed for just one. So: two fully grown men, one slender but
neither of them particularly small, and one sun lounger.

They could sit next to each other, but that isnt what either of them want right now. They are too
upset, both of them, and too greedy for the simple comfort of contact to stay that way, or to be
careful about how much they fall into each other. Their bodies remember how it felt to lie next to
each other, so close that theres no room between them for anything, and its giving in, but nothing
less will do.

So they solve the puzzle by lying back, tucking Credences shoulder under Graves arm, and
hooking one of Credences legs over one of Graves so that he cant fall backwards but his weight
isnt too much on Graves ribs. The gnawing need is placated: the warmth trapped between their
chests makes Graves breathing easier than its been in weeks, and Credence is calmer with
Graves arm around him.

There, Graves says softly, tugging Credences arm over himself like a blanket.

Credence nods against his shoulder, sniffs faintly, and settles with his fingers curled loosely
around Graves bicep.

The songs. My songs. He clears his throat. Ive never heard them like that before. I didnt listen
to them all - I had to - I needed to. To see you, to. To be. With you. But - you changed them.

I know. Graves stares up at the sky. I didnt mean to. I thought I remembered them better.

No, not - not like that, thats not what I meant. Credence squeezes Graves arm. Ive never
heard anyone else play my music. Its - its so different, but its so. I dont know. You put things
in there that I wouldnt have thought of. It makes me want to try playing it your way - just to see if
I could. If I could make them sound that... He huffs. Confident. You always have that - youre
so solid, so sure.

Graves laughs despairingly. Shit, Credence, Ive never been less confident. Your music is so
complex, and Im just - brute-forcing it. Like a Mack truck trying to do ballet.

I think Id watch that. Credence pets him. But the point - what I was trying to say. Your
recordings arent bad. Theyre beautiful.

Graves shakes his head. Theyre nothing like what they should have been. I just wanted to... give
you something you needed. It was selfish, honestly. I thought -

I know what you thought, Credence says. Its what I thought while I was woodshedding
Shadowplay.

He catches Graves wrist and lifts it, hissing in sympathy as he looks at Graves mangled
fingertips. Val, he says helplessly. Why?

I couldnt stop until it was right. And it wasnt.

When you heal up. Credence is less bold now, with the urgency of earlier having worn off, but
he curls Graves fingers loosely into his palm and runs Graves nails over his cheek. Maybe - in a
week, or two, when youre better - maybe - He swallows, and tucks Graves hand under the
edge of his jaw. Maybe... Ill be better too. I think. Ill try. And maybe would you. Would you
want. To work on them with me?

Theyre your songs, Graves says, why would you want me to - oh, just to engineer for you?
Yes, of course, Ill do that -

No. Credence tightens his grip on Graves hand for a second. Not just to engineer. I think
they were good when I played them. Theyre great when you play them. But they could be
ours. Graves feels Credences pulse jump in his throat. And I think that might be amazing.

Graves cant breathe, and its got nothing to do with the weight against his chest. Or maybe it has
everything to do with the weight against his chest, and the easy, trusting way Credence has once
again handed him the most important thing in the world. As though he could possibly merit that -
as though he hasnt just proven the opposite.

Im not - I need to sit up, he says, to cover the panic or at least redirect attention from it. Sorry -

And physics has its swift revenge - he sits up too fast for Credence to be able to readjust, with
their legs tangled the way they are. Credence topples backwards off the sun lounger, and its not
far to the ground but its far enough that he grabs instinctively for Graves and pulls him off-
balance too. The sun lounger tilts - too far -

He lands on top of Credence a second after Credence crashes to the deck, and it knocks the breath
out of both of them - so much so that all he can do for a moment is lie there, sprawled over him.

Okay. Okay. His knees sting a little, and his palms and one elbow, but theyre not scraped. Hes
jarred his ribs a little, but nothings broken and theyre healed enough that theyll forgive him.
Credence is gasping under him, but only from the shock of the fall, not because Graves is crushing
him, or he wouldnt still have both fists full of Graves t-shirt. Hed be pushing him off.

Credence is definitely not pushing him off. In fact, Graves thinks - he might be laughing.
And then Graves shifts, trying to get enough leverage to roll off him, and Credence gasps - a very
different kind of gasp, and one that Graves cock recognises well before his brain does.

And for half a second his body overrides his good sense, caught up in the intoxication of being
touched, and he presses down against the lean muscle of Credences leg for the thrill it sends up
his spine -

And then he realises what he is doing, and with whom, and exactly how much he must not, and he
pushes himself off so hard he almost manages to get fully up on his feet, and staggers back -

- straight into the pool.

Its like being backhanded by Poseidon, and entirely deserving it. Everything is cold and wet and
a horrible surprise, and he thrashes back to the surface, coughing and spluttering, and goes under
again before he can get himself properly righted and under control.

Credence is crouched on the side of the pool looking stricken. Val! Oh my God, are you okay?
Im so sorry, I didnt -

Graves treads water long enough to shove his hair back out of his eyes. Hes an idiot. Hes such
an idiot, such a hopeless case, and theres chlorine in his eyes and his sinuses and the back of his
throat. Im okay, he says shortly, and kicks himself over to the ladder so he can climb out,
feeling the weight of his own stupidity as much as the water in his clothes. My own fault. Wasnt
paying attention.

Luckily, the chilly water has done for whatever trace of excitement might have been visible, along
with any he was feeling, but now that hes sopping wet, with icy rivulets trickling off the cuffs of
his jeans, its fucking cold out. Hes already shivering. But he cant go into the house tracking this
much water. Ugh.

His options are - well, there arent any, as awkward as this is going to have to be. He sighs, and
peels off his t-shirt. Sorry, he says, vaguely in Credences direction, look away if you need to.

I didnt mean to shock you, Credence says, so quietly hes not even sure he hears it right.

You didnt, Graves says. The jeans fight him like wet jeans always do, but he wrestles them off
as fast as he can, and wrings them out cursorily over the pool so they wont ruin his carpet.

He trudges inside, in just his boxers, feeling (or maybe just imagining) Credences eyes on his
back.

When he dresses again, its deliberate: he passes over the worn-soft t-shirts and jeans for a clean,
crisp button-down, slacks, and socks. These arent Vaals clothes, these clothes belong to Percival
Graves, and Percival Graves is responsible and is absolutely not, not under any circumstances,
going to seduce Credence Barebone. Not now. Not on the heels of all of the upheaval in
Credences life - he cant possibly expect Credence to give him anything, not when their
relationship is as unbalanced as it already is, and not when Credence is so young and so sheltered
and Graves is old and grey and has fucked his way through half of Greater Los Angeles. Its too
much. Hes too much. And he needs too much. He has to wait, and be patient about it, and accept
what hes given gracefully and make it enough; maybe someday it will bloom into what he wants.
But not today.

Today, he needs to remember what it is that actually needs doing, which is not reliving his youth.
Thats gone, and clearly better dead, if this mornings pathetic showing is the best he can do. The
world has enough washed-up rockstars. But he can still help Credence, as long as he remembers
who he is. He can keep it professional - hes fully capable of keeping it professional, no matter
what his feelings are. That will most certainly be better for everyone.

When he gets back out to the living room, Credence is back in his place on the couch, sitting with
that peculiar straightness that means hes paying extremely close attention to everything hes not
looking directly at. His cheeks are still a little pink, and although Graves is glad to see some colour
in them, hed rather it wasnt from embarrassment.

Im sorry about earlier, Graves says. Falling on you like that. Hes not about to be more
specific. Ignorance, affected or otherwise, is the only saviour hes likely to get here.

Its okay, Credence says. I dont think that was all your fault.

Graves nods noncommittally, and leans back against the breakfast bar. Its the most space he can
give Credence without actually putting something between them.

So, he says. I need to ask some questions that you probably dont want to think about, but if
Im going to be any use to you, I do have to know.

He watches Credences shoulders. They should be trying to creep up around his ears, by the usual
standard, but strangely, theyre not.

Whats the situation with you and New Salem?

Ah. Thats almost a laugh. I think I can consider myself extremely fired. Ma was quite clear.
Im never to set foot in that house again.

Good, Graves says, rather forcefully. And your contract as Obscurus?

Credence makes a face. That, I dont know. He might be able to hold me to it, though Id
imagine itll be hard if Im not allowed in the Blackwelt building anymore. But I feel like he might
try anyway, just for spite.

Graves nods. That sounds like the Gel Grindelwald I know. So well have to get you out of it. I
can do that. Im sure I can.

Privately, hes not. Grindelwald will fight him at every turn. This wont be easy. But if it costs him
his soul not to, its got to be done.

I think hell want to drop me once he reads Mr Scamanders article, Credence says quietly. Im
going to do it, you know. I called your office this morning - on the landline in your study. I talked
to Miss Queenie. I knew, if shes your assistant, that shed be able to get a message to him. I did
a lot of thinking, this morning, while you were downstairs, and He looks squarely at Graves.
I want to be the last person he gets to hurt. No more, after me. I dont care what I have to admit.
If its enough to tell the truth of who he is - I can do that.

For a moment, Graves is completely without words. All he has is this welling-up of nearly
unbearable pride.

You know it wont necessarily be easy, he says eventually. Newt wont be hard on you, but if
it gets out that you were one of his sources - it could hurt your career. A lot.

Credence shakes his head. It wont.

How do you know?

Credence stands up from the couch, and comes close enough that Graves could reach out, could
pull him into a hug, could press him to the place in his chest that hurts when he looks at him for
too long - he wont, but he could. And Credence smiles.

You wont let it, he says simply.

Its not up to him, itll never be all up to him, and he cant make any promises that big, but Graves
folds onto one of the barstools and watches Credence busy himself with the tiny mundanities of a
glass of juice, and loves him and despairs.

---

They spend the afternoon in relative silence, on the couch, watching Blazing Saddles. Its
comfortable: they are at opposite ends, and Graves has given Credence the end closer to the
television, so that he has to look past him to see what Gene Wilder is doing. It doesnt matter.
Graves could probably recite most of the dialogue. Hed rather look at Credence.

By the time the sun starts setting, theyve moved on to Arsenic and Old Lace, and Graves lets
Credence stay on the couch while he makes dinner. But when he gets out the chopping board and
starts trying to work out how to manage a knife around all his blisters, Credence pauses the movie;
before Graves knows it, hes being very gently pushed aside, with a warm hand on his elbow.
Let me.

Its faster with two sets of hands. And its strange, having anyone else in his kitchen, but Credence
brushes up against him, reaching for things, with the edges of arms and hips and shoulders. It feels
like the prelude to something that might be too much, but by itself its all right. He can have
this. This isnt anything too scary or too challenging. Its just dinner, just a bunch of vegetables
being reduced to neat, even slices and thrown in a pan with spices and hot oil, just a glass bowl
full of soaked-tender noodles, just Credence reaching around him with the length of his arm
pressed so carefully to Graves ribs where they were broken and should hurt, and dont.

They spoon the food out onto plates and eat standing at the breakfast bar, shoulder to shoulder,
unexpectedly ravenous. Graves thinks its the first time in - a very long time, maybe ever, that hes
seen Credence eat as though he really understands that there is more, if he needs it. That he
doesnt have to deny himself anything to make anyone else happy.

The denial, it seems, will fall entirely to Graves.

Graves looks at Credences steam-rosy cheeks, and thinks: he doesnt know how he will sleep
tonight, without Credence lying next to him.

And thinks: he has gone so long alone before Credence, surely this should be nothing.

And thinks: of course that doesnt make a difference.

And thinks: he could kiss Credence, now, and Credence would let him.

Credence is looking at him like he might be thinking the same. Like he might not want Graves to
stop -

They both jump half out of their skins when Graves cellphone rings.

He grabs for it before it buzzes itself right off the edge of the countertop. Hello?

Graves. Listen. Its - its Tina, but hes never heard her sound quite so determinedly
bloodthirsty. If you have any objections to grand larceny, or any prior convictions that mean you
cant get busted holding stolen property, I need to know right now.

... What? He squints at the phone. Goldstein, what have you done?

Theres an engine coming up the street, in a hell of a hurry. Just answer the question, Tina says
tightly.

He grabs a handful of his own hair. No - no priors, and honestly, that wasnt even a question -
now tell me what you did.

Brakes squeak in his driveway, and doors slam, in stereo from outside and over the phone.
Youre sure you want to know? Tina says.

I get the feeling Im about to either way, Graves says, because he can hear the key in the lock,
and theres only one person who has a key to his front door right now apart from himself.

Mr Graves? Queenie calls, up the stairs, and hes definitely in trouble if shes calling him that.
Are you up here?

Were in the kitchen. Graves ends the call, and sets the phone down.

Oh, Credence is with you? Thats perfect. Queenies feet are light on the steps. Tina, come on
up!

Why is it perfect? Graves asks wearily.

Well. Funny story, Queenie says, as she comes into view.

A bag dangles from her hand, an unassuming black duffel, but beside him, Credence stiffens.

We may have been. Visiting some folks. And I may have been given a present or two that
miiiiight not have been strictly above-board, and we might have had to move pretty fast to get out
of there before anyone spotted us, but - Queenie shrugs theatrically, and steps aside.

Tina stands at the top of the stairs, looking deeply stressed. Theres a large, lumpy, cloth-wrapped
object in her arms.

And over her shoulder, in its black gig bag, is Credences guitar.

Instinct makes Graves grab for Credence, fractions of a second before Credences knees go out on
him; he gets his feet under him again almost immediately, but hes white as paper and staring at
Tina like she cant be real.

Its okay, sweetie, Queenie says soothingly, which had better be directed at Credence. I guess
we should explain.

Id like that, Graves says. Sit down. Im sure this is going to take awhile.

He shepherds a very wobbly Credence over to the couch, wedging him neatly between the
padded arm and his own side. Tina sets the swaddled thing on the coffee table, but then bites her
lip, swings the guitar off her back and holds it out to Credence. Here, she says.

Credence takes it onto his lap and wraps both arms around it. He rocks it gently, like a child, its
neck against his own; Graves can feel him shaking. He squeezes Credences knee.

So. Tell me exactly what happened, he says, so theyll look at him instead of Credence.
Well, Queenie says. I got an interesting phone call early this morning, from Credences little
sister. I gave her my own cellphone number on Wednesday - I had a feeling she might want it.
Seems she had a fight with the older one, and it came out exactly why Credence wasnt coming
home. And that Mrs Barebone had told Chastity that Credence was staying with a friend.
Although I dont think thats how she would have put it. She says to me, Youre the only friend
he has. Is it you? She smiles to soften the blow. I told her no, you had better friends than me.

Credence leans into Graves side. His voice is thick. You are a good friend, Miss Queenie.
Really. And you too, Miss Tina.

Thank you, Queenie says warmly. But anyway, she said she got mad about it, it didnt seem
right, and shed noticed that all of your things were still in the cupboard and wondered if you
needed some of them. So she snuck around after everyone was asleep and packed up as much as
she could for you. And she said we should come tonight if we could, and get the things, because
she wasnt sure how long she could hide it all for. And then you called, and I guess Im a meddler
but after I talked to you I thought - I just had to do this. You were gonna be so brave, you
deserved something good to happen to you.

She roped me in, Tina says, so that she could go in and have a nice little chat with Chastity, tea
and cookies, while I snuck round the back and met Modesty skulking in the backyard. We ran
over to the church - I can't remember the last time I jumped a fence - and Modesty got me into the
equipment room, and there was the bag - sitting right next to your guitar and your pedalboard.
And I looked at her, and she just goes Take it. All of it. Hell be lonely for his guitar, I know he
will.

Credence hugs the guitar even tighter, hunching over it until it must be digging into his chest.
Nobody comments on how quickly he wipes his eyes.

And then we snuck Modesty back in and I hid in the back seat of the car with the guitar, under a
blanket, until Queenie came back, Tina concludes, which would have been much less dramatic
if you hadnt waited until Mary Lou was actually home. She glares at her sister.

I had to, Queenie says. That way shed know it was nothing to do with me, since Id been
there the whole time, talking to Chastity about whether it was really a sin to laugh in church if it
was because you felt so happy that God loved you. By the way, it is hard to come up with
complicated theological questions on two minutes notice. She shrugs. Anyway, you got out all
right.

And then you nearly killed us driving here, Tina grumbles.

Queenie grins. I was excited. I never stole anything before.

Graves feels Credence take a very deep breath. Miss Tina? Miss Queenie? He slides the guitar
off his lap to lean against the couch, and stands, wavering. I dont know how I can ever thank
you enough.

Aww, honey, its nothing, Queenie says, getting up from her own chair to take his hands.

No. Credence is fighting the tears, but hes losing very badly. Its everything -

Oh, cmere, Queenie says gently, and folds him into her arms. You too, Teenie, you did just as
much as me.

Tina stands, and awkwardly joins the hug, covering about half of Credences back.

Sweetheart. Queenies got Credences head on her shoulder now. Graves is only faintly
surprised. Hed probably have hugged Queenie a lot more himself if she werent his admin. Shes
soft and warm and very easy to be so close to, and Credence cant have had many hugs like that in
his life.

But when he pulls away, she lets him go, and Graves knows that face, knows hes inches away
from shattering completely.

Excuse me, Credence whispers, and flees for the sanctuary of the guest room.

Graves considers going after him for far longer than he should. He hates the idea that Credence is
alone, even if he wants to be. But then he realises Queenie and Tina are both watching him.

Sorry, he says. Woolgathering. Its been a long day.

Queenie clearly isnt fooled. So. Are you two okay?

Okay, in what sense? Graves makes himself sit up and not cross his arms over his chest. Im
fine. Hes doing better. Maybe now that he has his guitar hell feel like playing, which I think
would be good. He has this idea that we should collaborate, which is ludicrous, Im not half the
musician he is - but Im sure thats just because his confidence was shaken and he thinks he needs
the help. He doesnt, and Im no help anyway.

Or maybe he really likes you, Queenie says.

Graves is very aware of the depth and gravity of his unconvinced face. Maybe.

Queenie frowns at him. Dont you want him to?

You know that doesnt matter, Graves says. He stares at his fingertips.

Tina peers sharply at his hands. Hang on. What on earth did you do to your fingers? Jesus. That
looks awful.

I was recording. Or trying to. Graves sighs. He had all these songs, and his mother destroyed
all the tapes. But Id heard them, so I thought I could maybe approximate them. Stupid idea. This
is how I know we shouldnt collaborate.

But he wants to. And hes heard the tapes? Tina is clearly weighing something in her head.
Thats the look she always gets just before she gets herself into trouble. So youll flay your
own hands nearly to the bone for him, youll take a beating that puts you in the hospital for him,
youll take him in and give him food and shelter and - and care, but you wont let him give you
anything back? Her eyes are narrowing.

Theyre just songs, Graves says tiredly. Its not like hes offering me millions.

He doesnt have millions, Tina snaps. But he has songs. And hes trying to give them to you.

He doesnt understand. Shes visibly seething, and he has no idea why. Trust me, hed be better
off keeping them to himself.

Thats not the point, she nearly spits.

Teenie, Queenie says, a soft warning, but Tina shakes her head.

No, Im gonna say it, I dont care. You dont know, Graves, and youre a smart man, and youve
saved me a lot of times, so just this once Im going to save you, because you cant see what youre
doing. She stares him down. But here is what youre doing. He is trying to give you his songs,
because theyre the best thing he has. Maybe the only thing he has, but certainly the most precious
to him, and he knows you know the value of them. And you wont fucking take them, out of
some sort of nobility or humility or psychological complex, because you think youll ruin
everything. She shakes her head hard enough that her hair fluffs slightly. For fucks sake,
Graves. You obviously love him, given how shit scared you are to ruin his career by getting your
dirty hands on it, or whatever it is you think is going to happen. Youre clinging to this faade of
professionalism and detachment, but its not real, or you wouldnt be trying so hard and acting so
miserable about it. Youd just be professional. I get that its critical to you that he succeeds - I
really do. And I care about him too. So fine. She takes a deep breath. Ill sign him. Ill sign you
both, as a single act, if hes right about the collaboration, which Im sure he is. I believe everything
youve told me about how great he is and how much of a coup it would be for the label, so itll be
worth it, and itll be good for my career in the long term, and I will deal with the fallout from my
budget overruns in the short term, and I will find the lawyers that will get him free and take all
your advice on how best to handle everything - and you will get the fuck over yourself and kiss
him.

For a moment, Graves gapes at her, standing there with her fists at her sides and her eyes glittering
with frustration. Shes terrifying. Shes magnificent.

And then, behind her, Credence steps around the corner.

Instantly, Graves can see in his face that hes heard everything.

Credence has long ago mastered the art of keeping what hes thinking locked away behind a
mostly neutral expression, and its fucking killing Graves that all he can read is that Credence is so
upset by what hes just heard and so scared of what hes about to walk into that hes blanked his
face.

Thats how he looks at Mary Lou, not how he should look at Graves, not how he should ever look
at Graves, and Graves cant stand it.

Credence, he says, Im sorry -

Is it true, Credence says, over him, and Credence has never done that, never - Is it true, Val.

Is what true? He knows hes stalling.

Credence knows it too, by the banked fire in his eyes. What she said. He clenches, then
unclenches his fists. That you love me. And youre trying not to.

His chest aches. It doesnt matter.

Will her plan work. Credences affect is flat, but like a blade is flat.

Yes, Tina says.

Val. Will it work. Credences shoulders are braced for a blow.

Maybe? He stares at Credence, feeling helpless to a degree he cant remember in the last ten
years. Maybe. I dont know. Probably.

Well then. I think it matters a lot. Five strides, and Credence stops, close enough for Graves to
touch if he thought he could. Doesnt it? If you love me?

Credence Graves bites his lower lip until hes sure he can taste blood. I cant. I cant ruin
this for you. Im not... who Id need to be.

Credence blinks, slow like a predator. Then he nods. I understand.

I dont, Graves says.

And for just a second, theres a flash of a smile at the corner of Credences mouth. I know, he
says. Im sorry if Im not very good at this.

Graves is suddenly seized, his face pinned between Credences palms, held still - and Credence
fits his mouth carefully onto Graves.

Its unstudied, inexperienced - its warm, its gentle - its -

Over, because Credence has pulled back, and is looking at him. You already are exactly who I
need you to be, you always have been. And you havent ruined anything, he says softly. But if
you dont kiss me back right now, you might.

To his dying day, Graves will never admit to having made the little whimpering noise at the back
of his throat.

So he kisses Credence back, to distract him from it. And then again, because hes got Credences
jaw cupped in his hands, and Credence has slid his arms around Graves neck, and again, because
Credence is leaning into him, and again, because he needs to.

Credence shivers, and oh, hes - nipping at Graves upper lip and pressing his hips into Graves so
gently but so insistently, and where the fuck did he learn to do that, and can he do it forever -

Come on, Teenie, he hears, very quietly. Leave em to it. I think they have everything under
control. Well sort out the details in the morning.

Graves is a master of self-restraint and willpower; he manages to wait until he hears the front door
click before hes pushing Credence up against the wall.

Is this okay? he pants, against Credences neck.

Only if you dont stop there, Credence says, please, Val -

He doesnt.

He knew there was a reason hed bought such nice thick carpets.

---
---

THE DARK WIZARD OF BLACKWELT

reporting by Newt Scamander

The young man on the telephone with me is quiet.

On some level, I knew, he tells me. There was something in his eyes that didnt match up to
the rest of what he was saying. But I also knew he had me over a barrel, one way or the other, so
I just chalked it up to that - that he knew hed won.

Its a story Ive heard over and over in the last fortnight, so often that I almost feel I could recite
the beats of it myself. The men who speak to me vary in age, from well into their forties down to
their early twenties, but some of them merely have to reach back farther to remember that look of
triumph, and what would soon follow after.

In every business, there are people best avoided - the spiders lurking under rocks. Sometimes their
nests are signposted, but there are always those who are too crafty to leave traces, or too slippery
to be caught at anything before it is too late and all that can be done is to reconstruct from the
evidence of those who have fallen. And if they cannot speak, the spider lives, and waits, and
strikes.

The music industry is known for the persistence of its spiders. There is a centuries-long tradition
of the Svengali, more so than in most of the entertainment fields, and their possibly noxious effect
on their vulnerable protgs is well-documented - but then the hit records appear, and the money
pours in, and the photo shoots show smiling faces, and really, it cant be all that bad, can it?

I happened to be in London, and I got asked to do some press things with a band who had just
broken their contract with Blackwelt, recalls Sylvester (names and some details have been edited
for reasons of privacy). They were known to be lovely blokes, all of them, and I had a grand
time in the interview, right up until we had a break, and then one of them pulled me aside. Is he
touching you, he asked me - and I didnt know how he could possibly have known that. I thought
that Id managed to keep everything very discreet, because of course, I didnt want it known -
didnt want it assumed; I was very early into a career that I knew was based terribly heavily on
my looks and my appeal, and of course someone might think Id slept my way to the top of the
charts. I was so horrified that I said some absolutely awful things and refused to do any further
press with them, because how did they know, you know? And I didnt talk to them again for a
couple of years. Not until I realised that of course, they knew because he was always the same.
Theyd only been trying to help.

I hear the same thing from Paul, and from Harvey, and from Nathan. And every time, at the
centre of the sticky web of lies and suggestions and coercion and outright blackmail, the same
spider, hopping from Berlin to London to New York to Los Angeles in search of the freshest and
most vulnerable prey.

There are conflicting reports about how Gellert Grindelwald got his start in the music business.
What everyone can agree on is this: he started out powerful, and with every clever career move
and inspired artist pick, he became more and more so. Eventually he struck out on his own,
finding that no existing label could support the breadth of his vision. And at Blackwelt, with no
supervision to speak of, he perfected his sinister business model: Find an act with something to
prove, and as large an Achilles heel as possible. For Alan, it was his addiction to prescription
painkillers; for Harvey, it was debts of thousands of dollars; for Simon, it was an abusive
relationship with a controlling manager. Once their weakness was established, he would offer
salvation, or what seemed like it. And the cost was so small, so easily rationalised.

Just a kiss, my boy. Just a touch. You know how special you are to me...

---
---

I like it, Graves says. I do. I didnt think I would, but I do.

Credence, at his side, has the delicacy not to say I told you so out loud, but hes radiating such
smug delight that Graves has to grab him by the elbow and tug him off balance, under the guise of
making him lean in to look closer.

Did you see, he says, how all the tombstones on the hill have little devils on them?
Um. I actually suggested that. Credence looks over his shoulder. And also the black cloud over
them, blotting out the sky.

Oh. Well He feels Credence chuckling. Its good. The typeface was definitely my call,
though. And correct. Graves strokes the elegant silver gothic lettering that spells out BARREN
VALLEY.

Credence leans his chin on Graves shoulder. Yes. Thats great, Val, I love it.

Its gonna look really good on the t-shirts, Tina says cheerfully, sliding a shirt mockup onto the
easel overtop of the album cover. The traditional black, with the name in greyscale screenprint,
and then we were thinking maybe a white version with the smoke cloud graphic. Tour dates on
the back when we get that far.

I talked to Jeff about hosting the album release party, Graves says. Hes willing to do it
provided we handle setup and strike, all load-in and load-out, and we dont complain that theres
no wine list.

Tina raises an eyebrow. You have a list of venues as long as your arm, why are you so
determined to choose the one with the tiniest possible backstage? And carpets that try to eat your
shoes?

They know us there, Graves says, and squeezes Credences hand. We have history there. And
the venue rental fee doesnt really cover the least of what I owe Jeff. Besides, the carpets add to
the atmosphere.

Well, all right, Tina says dubiously. Ill tell Sera. Im sure we can dress it up a little. At least its
cheaper and easier than the Viper Room.

Graves grins at her, a Vaal grin, all pointy teeth and sparkle. Thats me. Cheaper and easier than
the competition.

If only that were true, Tina sighs. Sera still hasnt totally forgiven either of them for the contract
payout to Blackwelt, even though the court case had certainly made it a more palatable sum.
Graves doesnt care. Hed have paid it out of his own pocket just for the look on Credences face
when hed walked out a free man.

You are pretty easy, Credence says thoughtfully, with a flawless deadpan.

Graves marvels. Two months ago Credence wouldnt have been able to think that without
blushing, but this is the guy hed had perched on his desk when Abernathy had walked in on
Monday, and Credence had broken the kiss and looked over Graves shoulder and said Were
busy, so clearly living with Graves has ruined him irredeemably.

He does know that Queenie had won a hundred dollars off Abernathy for it, but at least shell
finally get her handbag. And Credence had just gone back to kissing him, which he is getting far
too good at, so there really hadnt been any losers, apart from Abernathy, who should honestly
have known better than to bet against a Goldstein.

Not my fault, Graves says. It seems my boyfriend is a force of nature, and neither the sky nor
the highest heaven can contain him.

Thats blasphemy, Credence says mildly, but he says it against the corner of Graves mouth, so
Graves is fairly sure he doesnt mind.

Excuse me, Tina says. Can you not make out in my office right now? Or ever?
 This is all your fault, Graves informs her blithely. This whole thing - every bit of it - all your
fault. Deal with the consequences.

Val, Credence whispers. I have a better idea. Lets go home. And maybe when we get there...
you can practise your blasphemy some more.

Hallelujah, Graves breathes, and Credence smiles like a sunrise.

Chapter End Notes

thank you all for taking this journey with me.

if anyone is interested in knowing more about the musical DNA of this fic, i invite
you to check out the official shadowplay playlist here on youtube.

it's a slightly bonkers mix containing everything from the john 5 and buckethead
tracks that gave me obscurus' sound, to the iron maiden and judas priest that i drew
on for deviltomb, to new salem's "partridge family bullshit" and the manic drive track
that started this whole idea in early march when i heard it on the radio and went
WHAT IF THE BAREBONES HAD A FAMILY BAND. because i just can't keep
my fingers out of anything.

turn it up loud. <3

End Notes

find me on tumblr. but talk loud, i'm pretty deaf after all the iron maiden i listened to to get
this stuff cooking. :D

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