kind of a mishmash of your prompts, hope it's cool. i kept the prostitution part intact, at least.
-----
Sunday evenings are for the congregation. Credence marks the dates on the cheap calendar he has hanging over his bed, the corners of the pages worn smooth from frequent thumbing. Downstairs, the broken baby piano struggles through the hymns as Chastity practices for the dinner prayers. Modesty, pretending to be getting dressed for supper next door, clacks around in her brand-new shoes.
The soles are pressed cork, with rubber soles. A fairly expensive pair, considering the budget of a non-denominational church like their own.
Credence can afford it for her, for now. He's a few hundred short before he can buy that ticket out of New York, to parts of America yet unknown to him. Mother had asked about the shoes -- he'd said they were donated, from a couple driving through Harlem. Mother seemed to have doubted that answer, but shoes are shoes, and the pair fit Modesty perfectly.
Credence wonders if he can afford to take her with him when he leaves. When, not if.
He marks an X on today's date, scratches it off the calendar, and wonders how many times he'll have to be on his knees this week to make up the difference for the shoes.
-----
"Commissioner! Could I have a word!"
Percival Graves, Commissioner General for the New York Aurors Department of the MACUSA, sighs with aggravation into his morning coffee. He's had three hours of sleep at the most, and there's a lingering ache somewhere behind his ear that he isn't sure is a migraine or the side effects of a hex that hit him two nights before. He jams the elevator's button a few times as Det. Tina Goldstein's heels click behind him in hurried steps. Using the reflective surface of the elevator doors to see behind him, Graves sees that she has folders trapped in one arm and a small briefcase swinging wildly with the other. A very familiar flyer is sticking out of one folder; Graves prays, wills with his mind for the elevator to hurry up.
"Good morning, Tina," he greets her, not waiting for her to catch her breath. His voice rough from lack of sleep and four cigarettes smoked one right after another. "It's not even seven. I'm not going to hear about the New Salemers today, right, Tina?"
"Sir, Mr. Commissioner—" There's a plaintiveness to Tina's voice this morning. She draws a deep breath, a speech obviously prepared judging from her demeanor, but Graves cuts her off before she can go through his entire service record in some attempt to pander to his pride.
He won't deny he has one. He just doesn't have the patience for it today.
"Two minutes, Tina."
"It's the children, sir. The mother—"
He drowns out the rest, soon as he realizes that he's heard this before. Eight hours ago, to be exact; Tina Goldstein is nothing if not tenacious. Graves drains his paper cup, mulling over a response just as the elevator finally decides to arrive. The squat, frowning house elf manning the post today isn't Red, and Graves files the observation for later. He steps into elevator, hauling Tina in by the arm. It jostles some of the folders she's holding, but her reflexes catch the slack without missing a beat.
It makes him almost smile. Despite her demotion from Special Investigations to Community Disturbances, Tina's instincts haven't tarnished.
"Remind me again why I agreed to let you re-open the New Salemers case."
Tina's lips purse into a thin line. Meanwhile, the elevator careens to the Special Investigations floor, the floor numbers flicking by on a little gold panel abovehead. Graves catches the glint of longing in Tina's eyes as they near his floor - just his, now, and the handful of Aurors Tina used to work with - and not for the first time he considers giving President Picquery a very colorful piece of his mind about Tina's demotion.
"The New Salemers are a potential danger to the magical community because of the incendiary nature of their, ah, preaching—"
"Hate speech. You can say it, Tina. We're not in front of the board."
"That's exactly the problem! I need to meet with the board, sir!" The Auror's voice pitches high, just as the elevator shunts to a stop and the doors start folding aside to let passengers off. "They've moved from speeches to public demonstrations and Mary Lou Barebone has been using the kids under her care to—"
"That's not enough." Graves disembarks while shrugging his coat off, handing it and his empty cup to a waiting Abernathy. "Give me something I can squeeze on, Tina. Hell, give me something we can Obliviate, but until then—" He waves her goodbye as the elevator door shuts, Tina's audible protests folding over one another in a flurry of words.
Despite appearances, Graves is fond of the girl. Strong-willed, bull-headed, exceptionally keen. The mishap that led to her demotion had simply been... misguided. Graves shakes his head, his disappointment at her demotion still lingering after all these months. She would've made good work in Special Investigations.
"All right. Everybody, to me," he claps as he steps into the middle of the floor's bull pen. A whole section of the back wall serves as his backdrop - the wall is papered from the high ceiling to the carpeted floor with maps, pictures, and various notes, colored strings pinned to places as they all pull in to center on a card with one name written on it: Gellert Grindelwald. Graves unbuttons his cuffs, rolls his sleeves up, and takes the fresh cup of coffee Abernathy's already prepared for him. "Where are we on Grindelwald?"
The room erupts into a cacophony of eager voices.
This is going to be a long day, Graves thinks, and drains his cup in one go.
-----
The Woolworth Building looms high, casting a tall shadow in the middle of a hot Monday afternoon. Credence prefers to stand across from the building, at the corner with the street signs and stop light; there's a concession stand downwind and a storefront nearby with a strong airconditioning system; if he stands in a particular spot, the heat won't press so much against his back, and he could play a guessing game on what's for sale from the stand today.
They don't have a television in the church. No cellular phones, either. The one radio in the church remains strictly locked up in Mother's room, to be turned on only during Fridays and Saturdays so they could listen to the sermons from the Christian station one burrough over.
This is what passes for his entertainment, as he hands out flyers for the New Salem Philanthropic Society, his mother's church. Mother, he thinks a touch unkindly. Mary Lou Barebone is as much his mother as she is Chastity's or Modesty's - but she's all they have. So are the welts still stinging under his shirt from last night's punishment, when he didn't quite meet his quota of flyers given out that day.
Credence's back hurts. His knees still ache.
"Would you like to hear about the New Salem Philanthropic Society, sir?" He asks a grey-haired man as he holds a pamphlet out. "What about you, Ma'am, would you like to hear about our church?"
The crowd simply swerves around him. Credence perseveres like this for another two hours, until a man in a three-piece suit stops in front of him. His face is reedy, with blotched skin around the nose, and there's a slight droop around his waist. A faint recognition flickers across the man's expression, at the same moment Credence recognizes him.
"Would you like to hear about our church, sir," Credence offers, but not with the voice he uses when he's standing behind the pulpit with his sisters in tow. He tucks a stray fringe away from his eyes, looking up at the man with a half-lidded gaze. "It won't take a while. Just a minute of your time."
The man in the suit gawps, like an unattractive fish, but caves all the same.
-----
Credence spits twice into the gutter. The man shorted him, but Credence managed to tuck four pamphlets into his jacket.
It's a fair enough trade, as far as he's concerned.
-----
Time stops meaning anything.
At least that's what Graves would like to think, at half-past eleven, as the pile of "tips" they've received over the week regarding Grindelwald's whereabouts continues to grow like an enormous fungus. It's even started to eat up space on Tina's empty desk, the position left unoccupied despite Picquery's insistence to hire someone. He doesn't have to hire anyone when there's a perfectly good detective eighteen floors down that should be sitting there.
Graves sighs again. He's itching for a cigarette, but the new regulations won't allow it.
"Abernathy," he calls out, flagging the secretary as he passes with a flick of his fingers. The boy - for he couldn't be anything else, fresh-faced and barely in his twenties - all but runs up to him, eager to please. (Graves would not be opposed to seeing this eagerness outside of work, but— there are rules. EVen if it's just a one-off.) "Don't you have anywhere to be tonight?"
"No, sir," the boy answers brightly, if a bit confusedly. "Do you need me for anything, Commissioner?"
"Sort these papers on my desk in order of priority for week, and cancel my meeting tomorrow with the President." The boy blanches - Graves almost laughs at the look. "If her secretary gives you grief, handle it."
"Sir? We've already rescheduled the meeting four times—"
"Reschedule again," Graves replies, and this time he smiles - all teeth, barely amused. "If the president wants the meeting, she'll find a way."
Abernathy's eyes widen to near-comical proportions. Graves gets up off his desk, pats the boy on the shoulder, and calls for his coat and scarf. "Where are you going, sir?" There's an audible note of panic in Abernathy's voice, this time.
"To smoke. Get some sleep. Anything that gets me out of this fucking building."
Graves is already tapping out a cigarette before he's stepped out of the elevator, fingers ready to snap a little fire once he's reached the short awning that serves as de facto smoking corner for the department. The corner is glamoured against No-Majs, as their laws prohibit any public smoking entirely, but the glamour doesn't necessarily hide them from sight. No-Maj eyes only slide over them, conveniently forgetting about whichever wizard happens to be standing there.
It's convenient enough. Graves takes two long pulls, savoring the bitter smoke and the nicotine rush. Tonight is a cold night - the wind picks up harshly, pushing Graves' coat open and his scarf afray before he can spell an invisible wall to shield him from the breeze.
That's when he notices the boy.
He's a slight little thing, with an uneven haircut that's been grown into, the remnants of a severe bowlcut softened by passage of time. The boy's cheeks are a high pink, possibly from the weather, and his clothes look handed down at least twice.
He also has a very familiar pamphlet in hand.
Curious, Graves thinks, dropping his stick to the floor and putting it out with his heel. He taps out a second, lighting up as he makes his way across the street.
"You, boy!" He calls out. Graves' voice startles the young man, even prompting him to step back as if he's done wrong, but a soft resolve forms in him. The boy doesn't walk away. "What's that you got there?"
"The work of God, sir," the boy replies - his voice is deeper than Graves had expected. "Would you like to hear about—"
"How about you skip the script, get to the good part about the witches?"
The boy, with his hand (and pamphlet) held out in front of him, blinks at him in bemusement. "You're familiar with the church?"
"You're the New Salemers."
"Mother Barebone disapproves of that name, but yes." There's a slight furrow to the boy's frown now; if Graves had to guess, the boy isn't used to being paid attention to. "We're seeking the enlightment of the people against the threat of witches creeping through the city right under our noses."
"Do you believe in witches, then?"
At this, the boy's eyes harden. It's a stark look on the boy. "I believe there is evil in this world, sir."
"And witches are a part of it."
"Among many things, sir."
Graves draws a deep pull off his cigarette, eyes watchful on the boy. This is Tina's case - he can see why her concern had been flourishing unabated, if all the Barebone children under the wretched Mary Lou's care are as undernourished as this boy. Graves blows smoke out on the exhale; the wind picks up again, and drags the smoke right into the boy's face. He sucks a breath through his teeth. "Sorry about the smoke."
"It's fine," the young man says, though he coughs once. "If you'll take a pamphlet—"
"Oh, you'll call it even?" The boy smiles - Graves is sure of it, even if he thinks he may have made it up, the smile having come and gone in the blink of an eye. He takes the pamphlet from the boy's outstretched hand all the same. "How about you tell me your name and I'll take the rest of those flyers off you?"
Without missing a beat, the boy replies. "Credence Barebone, sir."
Credence - what a strange name for a boy. Graves takes the sheaf of pamphlets from the boy's hands, and as the boy's sleeve rides up his arm Graves doesn't miss the faint scars running up the boy's wrists. The boy - Credence - doesn't notice that he's noticed.
"Well, then. Credence. Let's not see you on this corner again at this time of night, shall we?"
Credence definitely smiles now, but it's not a happy smile. There's a deep sadness etched into the corners of the boy's mouth - something about it makes Graves want to wipe it off with his fingers, to brush it away like errant dirt. "Would that I could, mister - the Lord's work does not rest."
-----
SENT: 11:47 PM TO: GOLDSTEIN.P@MACUSA.NET History of abuse re: Barebone children?
SENT: 11:48 PM TO: GRAVES.P@MACUSA.NET Well-documented in No-Maj court, but no arrests were ever made. Are you looking into my files, Commissioner?
SENT: 12:21 PM TO: GOLDSTEIN.P@MACUSA.NET Just curious. Look into it.
SENT: 12:21 PM TO: GRAVES.P@MACUSA.NET I knew you heard me. Sir. I won't let you down.
SENT: 12:29 PM TO: GOLDSTEIN.P@MACUSA.NET Fucks' sake, Tina.
SENT: 12:21 PM TO: GRAVES.P@MACUSA.NET :)?
SENT: 12:29 PM TO: GOLDSTEIN.P@MACUSA.NET Don't make me fire you.
-----
(i'll try to get the sex in for the next part, this intro got away from me >_>; )
FILL: pretty little head (1/?)
-----
Sunday evenings are for the congregation. Credence marks the dates on the cheap calendar he has hanging over his bed, the corners of the pages worn smooth from frequent thumbing. Downstairs, the broken baby piano struggles through the hymns as Chastity practices for the dinner prayers. Modesty, pretending to be getting dressed for supper next door, clacks around in her brand-new shoes.
The soles are pressed cork, with rubber soles. A fairly expensive pair, considering the budget of a non-denominational church like their own.
Credence can afford it for her, for now. He's a few hundred short before he can buy that ticket out of New York, to parts of America yet unknown to him. Mother had asked about the shoes -- he'd said they were donated, from a couple driving through Harlem. Mother seemed to have doubted that answer, but shoes are shoes, and the pair fit Modesty perfectly.
Credence wonders if he can afford to take her with him when he leaves. When, not if.
He marks an X on today's date, scratches it off the calendar, and wonders how many times he'll have to be on his knees this week to make up the difference for the shoes.
-----
"Commissioner! Could I have a word!"
Percival Graves, Commissioner General for the New York Aurors Department of the MACUSA, sighs with aggravation into his morning coffee. He's had three hours of sleep at the most, and there's a lingering ache somewhere behind his ear that he isn't sure is a migraine or the side effects of a hex that hit him two nights before. He jams the elevator's button a few times as Det. Tina Goldstein's heels click behind him in hurried steps. Using the reflective surface of the elevator doors to see behind him, Graves sees that she has folders trapped in one arm and a small briefcase swinging wildly with the other. A very familiar flyer is sticking out of one folder; Graves prays, wills with his mind for the elevator to hurry up.
"Good morning, Tina," he greets her, not waiting for her to catch her breath. His voice rough from lack of sleep and four cigarettes smoked one right after another. "It's not even seven. I'm not going to hear about the New Salemers today, right, Tina?"
"Sir, Mr. Commissioner—" There's a plaintiveness to Tina's voice this morning. She draws a deep breath, a speech obviously prepared judging from her demeanor, but Graves cuts her off before she can go through his entire service record in some attempt to pander to his pride.
He won't deny he has one. He just doesn't have the patience for it today.
"Two minutes, Tina."
"It's the children, sir. The mother—"
He drowns out the rest, soon as he realizes that he's heard this before. Eight hours ago, to be exact; Tina Goldstein is nothing if not tenacious. Graves drains his paper cup, mulling over a response just as the elevator finally decides to arrive. The squat, frowning house elf manning the post today isn't Red, and Graves files the observation for later. He steps into elevator, hauling Tina in by the arm. It jostles some of the folders she's holding, but her reflexes catch the slack without missing a beat.
It makes him almost smile. Despite her demotion from Special Investigations to Community Disturbances, Tina's instincts haven't tarnished.
"Remind me again why I agreed to let you re-open the New Salemers case."
Tina's lips purse into a thin line. Meanwhile, the elevator careens to the Special Investigations floor, the floor numbers flicking by on a little gold panel abovehead. Graves catches the glint of longing in Tina's eyes as they near his floor - just his, now, and the handful of Aurors Tina used to work with - and not for the first time he considers giving President Picquery a very colorful piece of his mind about Tina's demotion.
"The New Salemers are a potential danger to the magical community because of the incendiary nature of their, ah, preaching—"
"Hate speech. You can say it, Tina. We're not in front of the board."
"That's exactly the problem! I need to meet with the board, sir!" The Auror's voice pitches high, just as the elevator shunts to a stop and the doors start folding aside to let passengers off. "They've moved from speeches to public demonstrations and Mary Lou Barebone has been using the kids under her care to—"
"That's not enough." Graves disembarks while shrugging his coat off, handing it and his empty cup to a waiting Abernathy. "Give me something I can squeeze on, Tina. Hell, give me something we can Obliviate, but until then—" He waves her goodbye as the elevator door shuts, Tina's audible protests folding over one another in a flurry of words.
Despite appearances, Graves is fond of the girl. Strong-willed, bull-headed, exceptionally keen. The mishap that led to her demotion had simply been... misguided. Graves shakes his head, his disappointment at her demotion still lingering after all these months. She would've made good work in Special Investigations.
"All right. Everybody, to me," he claps as he steps into the middle of the floor's bull pen. A whole section of the back wall serves as his backdrop - the wall is papered from the high ceiling to the carpeted floor with maps, pictures, and various notes, colored strings pinned to places as they all pull in to center on a card with one name written on it: Gellert Grindelwald. Graves unbuttons his cuffs, rolls his sleeves up, and takes the fresh cup of coffee Abernathy's already prepared for him. "Where are we on Grindelwald?"
The room erupts into a cacophony of eager voices.
This is going to be a long day, Graves thinks, and drains his cup in one go.
-----
The Woolworth Building looms high, casting a tall shadow in the middle of a hot Monday afternoon. Credence prefers to stand across from the building, at the corner with the street signs and stop light; there's a concession stand downwind and a storefront nearby with a strong airconditioning system; if he stands in a particular spot, the heat won't press so much against his back, and he could play a guessing game on what's for sale from the stand today.
They don't have a television in the church. No cellular phones, either. The one radio in the church remains strictly locked up in Mother's room, to be turned on only during Fridays and Saturdays so they could listen to the sermons from the Christian station one burrough over.
This is what passes for his entertainment, as he hands out flyers for the New Salem Philanthropic Society, his mother's church. Mother, he thinks a touch unkindly. Mary Lou Barebone is as much his mother as she is Chastity's or Modesty's - but she's all they have. So are the welts still stinging under his shirt from last night's punishment, when he didn't quite meet his quota of flyers given out that day.
Credence's back hurts. His knees still ache.
"Would you like to hear about the New Salem Philanthropic Society, sir?" He asks a grey-haired man as he holds a pamphlet out. "What about you, Ma'am, would you like to hear about our church?"
The crowd simply swerves around him. Credence perseveres like this for another two hours, until a man in a three-piece suit stops in front of him. His face is reedy, with blotched skin around the nose, and there's a slight droop around his waist. A faint recognition flickers across the man's expression, at the same moment Credence recognizes him.
"Would you like to hear about our church, sir," Credence offers, but not with the voice he uses when he's standing behind the pulpit with his sisters in tow. He tucks a stray fringe away from his eyes, looking up at the man with a half-lidded gaze. "It won't take a while. Just a minute of your time."
The man in the suit gawps, like an unattractive fish, but caves all the same.
-----
Credence spits twice into the gutter. The man shorted him, but Credence managed to tuck four pamphlets into his jacket.
It's a fair enough trade, as far as he's concerned.
-----
Time stops meaning anything.
At least that's what Graves would like to think, at half-past eleven, as the pile of "tips" they've received over the week regarding Grindelwald's whereabouts continues to grow like an enormous fungus. It's even started to eat up space on Tina's empty desk, the position left unoccupied despite Picquery's insistence to hire someone. He doesn't have to hire anyone when there's a perfectly good detective eighteen floors down that should be sitting there.
Graves sighs again. He's itching for a cigarette, but the new regulations won't allow it.
"Abernathy," he calls out, flagging the secretary as he passes with a flick of his fingers. The boy - for he couldn't be anything else, fresh-faced and barely in his twenties - all but runs up to him, eager to please. (Graves would not be opposed to seeing this eagerness outside of work, but— there are rules. EVen if it's just a one-off.) "Don't you have anywhere to be tonight?"
"No, sir," the boy answers brightly, if a bit confusedly. "Do you need me for anything, Commissioner?"
"Sort these papers on my desk in order of priority for week, and cancel my meeting tomorrow with the President." The boy blanches - Graves almost laughs at the look. "If her secretary gives you grief, handle it."
"Sir? We've already rescheduled the meeting four times—"
"Reschedule again," Graves replies, and this time he smiles - all teeth, barely amused. "If the president wants the meeting, she'll find a way."
Abernathy's eyes widen to near-comical proportions. Graves gets up off his desk, pats the boy on the shoulder, and calls for his coat and scarf. "Where are you going, sir?" There's an audible note of panic in Abernathy's voice, this time.
"To smoke. Get some sleep. Anything that gets me out of this fucking building."
Graves is already tapping out a cigarette before he's stepped out of the elevator, fingers ready to snap a little fire once he's reached the short awning that serves as de facto smoking corner for the department. The corner is glamoured against No-Majs, as their laws prohibit any public smoking entirely, but the glamour doesn't necessarily hide them from sight. No-Maj eyes only slide over them, conveniently forgetting about whichever wizard happens to be standing there.
It's convenient enough. Graves takes two long pulls, savoring the bitter smoke and the nicotine rush. Tonight is a cold night - the wind picks up harshly, pushing Graves' coat open and his scarf afray before he can spell an invisible wall to shield him from the breeze.
That's when he notices the boy.
He's a slight little thing, with an uneven haircut that's been grown into, the remnants of a severe bowlcut softened by passage of time. The boy's cheeks are a high pink, possibly from the weather, and his clothes look handed down at least twice.
He also has a very familiar pamphlet in hand.
Curious, Graves thinks, dropping his stick to the floor and putting it out with his heel. He taps out a second, lighting up as he makes his way across the street.
"You, boy!" He calls out. Graves' voice startles the young man, even prompting him to step back as if he's done wrong, but a soft resolve forms in him. The boy doesn't walk away. "What's that you got there?"
"The work of God, sir," the boy replies - his voice is deeper than Graves had expected. "Would you like to hear about—"
"How about you skip the script, get to the good part about the witches?"
The boy, with his hand (and pamphlet) held out in front of him, blinks at him in bemusement. "You're familiar with the church?"
"You're the New Salemers."
"Mother Barebone disapproves of that name, but yes." There's a slight furrow to the boy's frown now; if Graves had to guess, the boy isn't used to being paid attention to. "We're seeking the enlightment of the people against the threat of witches creeping through the city right under our noses."
"Do you believe in witches, then?"
At this, the boy's eyes harden. It's a stark look on the boy. "I believe there is evil in this world, sir."
"And witches are a part of it."
"Among many things, sir."
Graves draws a deep pull off his cigarette, eyes watchful on the boy. This is Tina's case - he can see why her concern had been flourishing unabated, if all the Barebone children under the wretched Mary Lou's care are as undernourished as this boy. Graves blows smoke out on the exhale; the wind picks up again, and drags the smoke right into the boy's face. He sucks a breath through his teeth. "Sorry about the smoke."
"It's fine," the young man says, though he coughs once. "If you'll take a pamphlet—"
"Oh, you'll call it even?" The boy smiles - Graves is sure of it, even if he thinks he may have made it up, the smile having come and gone in the blink of an eye. He takes the pamphlet from the boy's outstretched hand all the same. "How about you tell me your name and I'll take the rest of those flyers off you?"
Without missing a beat, the boy replies. "Credence Barebone, sir."
Credence - what a strange name for a boy. Graves takes the sheaf of pamphlets from the boy's hands, and as the boy's sleeve rides up his arm Graves doesn't miss the faint scars running up the boy's wrists. The boy - Credence - doesn't notice that he's noticed.
"Well, then. Credence. Let's not see you on this corner again at this time of night, shall we?"
Credence definitely smiles now, but it's not a happy smile. There's a deep sadness etched into the corners of the boy's mouth - something about it makes Graves want to wipe it off with his fingers, to brush it away like errant dirt. "Would that I could, mister - the Lord's work does not rest."
-----
SENT: 11:47 PM
TO: GOLDSTEIN.P@MACUSA.NET
History of abuse re: Barebone children?
SENT: 11:48 PM
TO: GRAVES.P@MACUSA.NET
Well-documented in No-Maj court, but no arrests were ever made. Are you looking into my files, Commissioner?
SENT: 12:21 PM
TO: GOLDSTEIN.P@MACUSA.NET
Just curious. Look into it.
SENT: 12:21 PM
TO: GRAVES.P@MACUSA.NET
I knew you heard me. Sir. I won't let you down.
SENT: 12:29 PM
TO: GOLDSTEIN.P@MACUSA.NET
Fucks' sake, Tina.
SENT: 12:21 PM
TO: GRAVES.P@MACUSA.NET
:)?
SENT: 12:29 PM
TO: GOLDSTEIN.P@MACUSA.NET
Don't make me fire you.
-----
(i'll try to get the sex in for the next part, this intro got away from me >_>; )