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Phases >> Credence Barebone X Reader

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.