Title: Phases
Paring: Credence Barebone X Reader
Warnings: angst, fluff, slice of life, healing, hurt/comfort.
Spoilers: no, but set after the first Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them movie.
Request: anon on AO3
Sequel: yes, to Seasons.
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The morning after Credence came, the sunlight spills onto his pale face through the window, filtering orange through the autumn leaves surrounding your little house. You had come from your bedroom, just awoken, and the sight of the handsome young man stilled your feet and caused your eyes to linger upon his sleeping face, his still form. You'd never seen him at rest like this, but he slept, perhaps every hour he had lost in his lifetime. You remember setting up the lounge for him before sundown, and now, when it's seven, twelve hours later, he sleeps on.
You leave him to rest and move to your small kitchen to prepare breakfast.
Today is a Sunday, and the No-Maj's in Beaver River take this day to abstain from work. You didn't quite understand, but like the other wizards and witches in the area, followed their ways to blend in. Even if you weren't in your little apothecary today, you would be harvesting the last of your herbs before the wintertime, preparing to dry them, and preparing potions for sale.
The smell of your hens' eggs wafts throughout the house, and as you seat to eat, Credence wakes. The small clock you hang beside the window says it's now eight o'clock, and he wanders to the table where you have served a portion for your guest.
You settle your fork upon the table, and meeting his gaze, intertwine your fingers with his. They're cool, like his pallor reflects his heat, and he blinks from the fog behind his eyes. A smile graces his lips. It's small, but it's there.
"Sorry," he says, quietly. "I'm off in my head."
Your thumb brushes over his knuckles. "It's okay," you reassure him. With your other hand, you return to your breakfast. Like braille, there's still raised scarring over his skin on his hands. You're not sure if Credence has tried to heal his scars, or even wants to, but you know a potion that can smoothen out all injuries on skin. "Everything takes time."
He hums in agreement, and picks at his meal.
-
You find him a week later at midday, laying amongst your perennial flower garden. It's starting to be colder out, but there he is, wearing the clothes you purchased with him at the general store. His brown eyes are closed, arms out, palms toward the cloudy sky. His slacks will be covered in grass stains.
But you're not following him around, not trying to pester him to wake up one day and be better. He lived through such abuse and such torture that you could never fathom what it had done to his spirit. No, you're hanging the washing on the line strung between the house and your tiny woodshed, and pegging up the bedsheets to dry, you hum a tune you can't quite put a finger to.
Just as you're trying to hang the fitted sheet a breeze pushes through from the underworld itself, and the material slips through your fingers. It soars through the air, and gathering your skirt in your fists, you chase after it. You try to cast accio, but wandless, everything your outstretched hands are pointing toward comes toward you – bark, stray leaves, the wheelbarrow. You manage to dodge the wheelbarrow, but still, the bedsheet escapes.
But then it's still, a white linin rectangle mid-air. If you weren't a witch, you'd think it unnatural, but then again, you didn't cast the spell which stilled the runaway sheet.
You glance behind you, to see Credence. He's sitting upright, now, eyes wide, face flushed with embarrassment, or, perhaps exhaustion? He blinks, and regarding his hands, then returns his sight to the sheet. Oh! you realise; he did it.
"I – sorry," he says.
You don't mean to laugh, but you do, anyway. It sounds like the laughter you remember of the pixies you found when you were eleven, airy and carefree, stunned, and stunning. "Don't be sorry – you're honestly fantastic, Credence, oh, thank you!" you shout to him. First, you gather the sheet from where it's frozen in the air, and ignoring the wet material, or any of your senses, you barrel toward him in your flower garden. You stop, however, at the lip of the garden bed, and on your knees, you look to him, stars in your eyes, "Has anyone ever told you that you're the bee's knees?"
He shakes his head. "I never had anyone who thought I was the bee's knees," he replies.
You hesitate, but taking the risk, you lean forward, and kiss his cheek. "Well," you say, leaning back on your knees, looking at Credence's blushing face, "now you do."
-
In the evening luminosity of the sunset, Credence's hand glows in the dusk as he turns the key to your apothecary. It marks the end of the day in more ways than the fading sun over the horizon – today you had many a No-Maj in your store, one wanting a remedy for her husband's cold, another wishing for a way to clean the water in the well. Credence had followed you to your work today; usually he stayed in your home, reading what little literature you had – Agatha Christie mysteries, Hemingway, an assortment of poetry – but when you rose today, Credence had already awoken, and asked to come.
You weren't used to the company, but, it was wonderful. When the store was quiet, you would usually sweep the dust from the corners into the pan and sing a tune under your breath as to not be embarrassed if a customer would come in mid-song.
But with Credence, you worked through the orders you had gotten from the week previous, mixing and casting in the back room, Credence dusting the shelves. He rarely spoke when Mrs. Turnbolt, a half-blood witch came at midday, but she spoke enough for the silence to be filled. Her daughter, Dorothy, looked to you both with a questioning gaze – almost wondering what you, an unmarried witch was doing with a man in your house. But the Turnbolt's left shortly after you administered their speciality spell, and no questions were asked.
But now, locking the door, Credence hands you the key. It's a heavy brass thing, something you paid a nice sum for, as well as the real estate for your apothecary, and you tuck the key into your pocket. Usually you apparate home, but today, you think twice about it.
It's been a month now since Credence found you in Beaver River.
His pallor improves with every day; it's like he's slowly coming out from the shell of his trauma. He likes it when you make the dishes wash themselves or have the knitting needles knit a scarf by themselves. But he doesn't like performing magic, well, except for that occasion when he helped you with the runaway bedsheet in the backyard.
Usually, you wouldn't be upset about not being able to apparate. But it's the cusp of winter, now, and the air is frosty, the dirt roads are tipped with ice, and the breath that escapes the both of your lips tastes frigid. But Credence –
He turns to you, rubbing his hands up his arms. You bought him a jacket, made of the material that the workers around here use to keep warm when felling trees. It's perhaps too big, and a shade too dark for his complexion, but to you, you wouldn't change a thing.
"Do we walk home now?" Credence asks, looking to your satchel.
You place a hand on your bag. It's enchanted with a spell you learned at school, which makes the inside as large as anything you wish. When you first cast the spell, it had the ability to contain an entire baseball field, which, was incredibly heavy. But since, you've honed your skill, and it is light as anything, and slightly less spacious.
"We could," you say, but opening your bag, you grab your broom. It's a bit old, but it's the same one you used to play Quidditch on when you were at Ilvermorny. "Or we could fly."
Credence's eyes become as wide as saucers, "Won't we be seen?" he whispers. You shake your head, and wandless, you cast a disillusionment charm upon the pair of you. "How do you fly?" he asks. It's then you position the broom beneath Credence, and it gathers him onto the forefront. Mounting the rear, you slide your arms over the wood and kick the broom into flight.
You expect him to be frightened, or angry for the lack of explanation, but when you look to him instead of the route you're taking back home, you see his face is caught up in an air of glee.
"Are you okay?" you ask, shouting over the wind.
He only laughs in response.
-
The neighbour's cockerel crows at midnight. This night, however, along with the crowing of a confused bird, there's a soft knock upon your bedroom door. You have trouble sleeping in the colder months, always either too cold to move a limb, or too warm in your bedsheets, and because of this, you can never find sleep easily in the wintertime. You push yourself from the mattress and walk to the door over the uneven floorboards.
When you open your door, Credence is there.
In the moonlit light of the room, you see the silvery trails of tears that have fallen upon his cheeks, his pleading eyes, so dark and so sad. Without processing a thought, you wrap your arms around his frame and gather him near.
You don't ask what's wrong. You know what's wrong.
It's everything he never spoke about, it's ever lashing, every supressed thought and feeling, every moment in his life that he felt terrible or unnatural, and it's escaping through his tear ducts. He cries, and he cries, and he cries until his chest is heaving and his body creates hiccups which rack his form even more. But you cling to him, draw him closer, close enough so your hearts can beat as if they are one, so some of his pain could be taken by you.
It's a while until when he can speak, and all he says is, "I'm sorry." It weighs your heart that he needs to apologise, but you know those two words to him are everything he wished he could have gotten from those who had harmed him. They're freeing words – and once they escape on his breath, Credence pauses.
"It's okay now," you say quietly, wiping your fingers under his eyes, wiping his growing hair from his face. Together you stand in the doorway to your bedroom, and softly, you repeat your words, "It's okay now."
Credence nods. "It is, isn't it?"
You place your forehead against his, and whispering, you utter, "Forevermore."