Hi Aaaaaaaanon! I couldn't stop thinking about what you said, so I decided to start writing and see what happened. I was aiming for Brooklyn Nine-Nine levels of hijinks and I think I wound up somewhere closer to season one White Collar. Still, I hope you enjoy it! ___________________________
Graves felt a prickle of unease between his shoulders as soon as he stepped inside the Luminaria, one hand resting gently in the small of Credence’s back. It was probably nothing, he thought. He was just feeling paranoid and overprotective about being out in public.
He should’ve just rented out the whole restaurant, he thought. It would only be marginally more expensive than what he’d paid Bellamy to cook one of everything on the menu, and to arrange for dealing with the leftovers. He’d intended to, but then Bellamy had bitched at him about his profit margins and the loss of reputation at cancelling so many reservations, and Graves had relented. Bellamy belonged to the Bluebird, and Graves was already on her shit list. The last thing he wanted to do was piss her off even more.
There were too many people in the restaurant – too many potential threats. This was a terrible idea.
The maître d’ escorted them to a large table that could have easily fit sixteen, rather than one that would fit two. Graves helped Credence into his seat and took the chair next to him, letting his gaze drift around the room.
“Percival,” Credence said. “Tell me you didn’t.”
“Didn’t what?” Graves asked innocently. Credence had made his feelings about being fussed over pretty clear, but this wasn’t fussing – Graves was keeping a promise.
“Oh, God, you did,” Credence said. He put his face in his hands, shoulders shaking faintly.
Behind him, a witch at a nearby table gave Graves a faintly appalled look It was possible she was genuinely concerned that he’d upset his very pregnant dinner companion, but Graves’ luck had been shit lately. She was probably a reporter for the New York Ghost.
If she was, Graves would track her down and force feed her tomorrows edition and her reporter’s notebook.
When Credence lifted his head again, it was obvious his shoulders were shaking because he was laughing. “I can’t believe you,” Credence said, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. “Percival. You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m a man of my word,” Graves told him, with mock-wounded dignity.
“You’re –” Credence broke off, his eyes going big and round as a veritable parade of waiters marched towards their table carrying trays laden with gorgeously plated dishes.
Halfway across the room, one of the other waiters was staring, too, his expression almost a match for Credence’s. Graves only noticed because the waiter was so distracted he overpoured a glass of water, spilling it onto the wizard he was serving.
“I’m so sorry!” he yelped, fluttering around the wizard with a napkin.
Graves narrowed his eyes, suspicious. The prickle of unease turned into a discordant warning jangle. Bellamy’s staff were trained professionals. They didn’t stay staff if they weren’t. That was a rookie mistake.
Another reporter, he wondered. No. Most reporters wouldn’t bother trying to infiltrate the waitstaff to break a story. It was too much work, with too much likely to go wrong. A real reporter would just bribe the actual waitstaff.
So if he wasn’t a waiter and he wasn’t a reporter, what was he? One of Grindelwald’s followers? If he was Grindelwald’s, who was his target – Graves or Credence?
Credence cleared his throat, drawing Graves’ attention back to him. He looked at the food-covered table. He met Graves’ gaze, and then looked back at the table, plainly incredulous.
“I told you I was going to order one of everything on the menu,” Graves reminded him, since some sort of token protest needed to be made.
“Yes, yes you did,” Credence agreed. “So I could try it all and find out what I liked.”
“You should probably start with the soups, before they get cold,” Graves advised. He wondered why Bellamy hadn’t staggered the courses and decided this was probably Bellamy’s way of saying Graves was an idiot.
Looking at the food covered table and the restaurant full of staring eyes, Graves found it hard to disagree with him.
“Which one’s your favorite?”
“That one,” Graves said, pointing to the broccoli cheddar soup.
Credence obligingly took a sip. He considered his mouthful and passed the bowl to Graves a second later.
“Percival?” Credence asked, after he’d tried and passed on the lobster bisque, the beef stew and the minestrone, which was Credence’s way of saying that he didn’t approve of the waste of food.
Graves’ place setting was starting to get a little crowded. He discretely signaled one of the waiters to come and clear it and got the clumsy one instead.
Graves readied a stunning spell, just in case, but the clumsy waiter managed to clear the soup away without incident.
“Yes, darling?” he asked, once the waiter was out of spell range.
“Will you come with me on my next appointment with the Bluebird?”
“Of course,” Graves said, a little baffled. He always went with Credence to his appointments. Credence knew that, so why was he asking?
“Good,” said Credence. “I think she needs to check you for brain damage.”
The witch who was probably a reporter made a tiny noise that was almost certainly laughter.
“She gave me a clean bill of health,” Graves protested.
Credence took a savage bite of balsamic glazed carrot and said, “Damage to the patellar ligaments and the tibialis anterior of the left leg. Healed hairline fractures present on the posterior side of right ribs one through seven, right scapula, right humerus –”
Credence could, would and had recited the entire list of Graves’ injuries to get Graves to do what he wanted. Credence, Graves thought darkly, had taken his lessons about not fighting fair a little too much to heart. (Graves was so fucking proud of him.)
Still. A man didn’t like to have his own tactics used against him. Graves grabbed the nearest appetizer and shoved it into Credence’s mouth, stemming the flow of injuries. The New York Ghost did not need to know the extent of what he’d endured at Grindelwald’s hands. Graves didn't need or want their pity.
“Fine,” Graves conceded. “She said I was an idiot and threatened to skin me for a rug if I injured myself during recovery.”
Credence licked his lips, satisfied as a cat with cream. He had another bite of the carrots and said, “A check-up would be good for you, anyway.”
“As you wish,” Graves sighed.
Credence’s smile was a small, satisfied thing. Graves wanted to lean over and find out how it tasted, but his instincts said now was not the time to demonstrate any sort of vulnerability.
“What happens to the rest of the food?” Credence asked, once a few more plates had been sampled and sent away. He kept hold of the carrots and the roast chicken on its bed of mushroom and leek risotto, curling his fingers protectively around the plate.
“I thought we’d take your favorites home,” Graves said. “The rest will be donated to No-Maj soup kitchens.”
“No-Maj?” Credence asked.
Graves shrugged. “I thought if more of the reputable soup kitchens had adequate supplies and funding, people like Mary Lou won’t gain quite so many followers.”
“Um,” said Credence, looking torn. He stuffed a massive bite of chicken into his mouth while his ears slowly reddened.
Graves stared at him, more than a little concerned. Credence was still chewing with evident pleasure, but he was also getting steadily redder. He caught Credence’s wrist before he could devour and equally massive portion of risotto. “Careful, lovely. If you choke on Chef Bellamy’s food, he’ll have a heart attack and the Bluebird will turn me inside out before she turns me into a rug.”
“Um,” Credence said again, squirming a little.
It hit Graves, suddenly, that he knew exactly what that little fidget meant. It meant Credence wanted Graves to stop whatever it was he was doing and make love to him.
“Oh,” Graves said. “Would you like me to get the check?”
“Yes,” Credence said, looking mortified by his own enthusiasm.
“Give me a moment to deal with Bellamy,” Graves said. And because he was still feeling overprotective and paranoid, he put a shield around Credence. No one would be able to touch him while Graves was gone.
“Percival?” Credence asked sharply. He knew the feel of Graves’ magic almost better than he knew his own, and he was sensitive enough to it to feel the shield like it was a physical object.
“Indulge me?” Graves asked, looking at Credence through his lashes. He didn’t want to worry Credence. Credence didn’t need to be worried, not after everything he’d already been through. Better he thought Graves overprotective than fret over a nonexistent threat.
Just Desserts (1/2) - Nothing Shall Be Impossible Side Story
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Graves felt a prickle of unease between his shoulders as soon as he stepped inside the Luminaria, one hand resting gently in the small of Credence’s back. It was probably nothing, he thought. He was just feeling paranoid and overprotective about being out in public.
He should’ve just rented out the whole restaurant, he thought. It would only be marginally more expensive than what he’d paid Bellamy to cook one of everything on the menu, and to arrange for dealing with the leftovers. He’d intended to, but then Bellamy had bitched at him about his profit margins and the loss of reputation at cancelling so many reservations, and Graves had relented. Bellamy belonged to the Bluebird, and Graves was already on her shit list. The last thing he wanted to do was piss her off even more.
There were too many people in the restaurant – too many potential threats. This was a terrible idea.
The maître d’ escorted them to a large table that could have easily fit sixteen, rather than one that would fit two. Graves helped Credence into his seat and took the chair next to him, letting his gaze drift around the room.
“Percival,” Credence said. “Tell me you didn’t.”
“Didn’t what?” Graves asked innocently. Credence had made his feelings about being fussed over pretty clear, but this wasn’t fussing – Graves was keeping a promise.
“Oh, God, you did,” Credence said. He put his face in his hands, shoulders shaking faintly.
Behind him, a witch at a nearby table gave Graves a faintly appalled look It was possible she was genuinely concerned that he’d upset his very pregnant dinner companion, but Graves’ luck had been shit lately. She was probably a reporter for the New York Ghost.
If she was, Graves would track her down and force feed her tomorrows edition and her reporter’s notebook.
When Credence lifted his head again, it was obvious his shoulders were shaking because he was laughing. “I can’t believe you,” Credence said, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. “Percival. You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m a man of my word,” Graves told him, with mock-wounded dignity.
“You’re –” Credence broke off, his eyes going big and round as a veritable parade of waiters marched towards their table carrying trays laden with gorgeously plated dishes.
Halfway across the room, one of the other waiters was staring, too, his expression almost a match for Credence’s. Graves only noticed because the waiter was so distracted he overpoured a glass of water, spilling it onto the wizard he was serving.
“I’m so sorry!” he yelped, fluttering around the wizard with a napkin.
Graves narrowed his eyes, suspicious. The prickle of unease turned into a discordant warning jangle. Bellamy’s staff were trained professionals. They didn’t stay staff if they weren’t. That was a rookie mistake.
Another reporter, he wondered. No. Most reporters wouldn’t bother trying to infiltrate the waitstaff to break a story. It was too much work, with too much likely to go wrong. A real reporter would just bribe the actual waitstaff.
So if he wasn’t a waiter and he wasn’t a reporter, what was he? One of Grindelwald’s followers? If he was Grindelwald’s, who was his target – Graves or Credence?
Credence cleared his throat, drawing Graves’ attention back to him. He looked at the food-covered table. He met Graves’ gaze, and then looked back at the table, plainly incredulous.
“I told you I was going to order one of everything on the menu,” Graves reminded him, since some sort of token protest needed to be made.
“Yes, yes you did,” Credence agreed. “So I could try it all and find out what I liked.”
“You should probably start with the soups, before they get cold,” Graves advised. He wondered why Bellamy hadn’t staggered the courses and decided this was probably Bellamy’s way of saying Graves was an idiot.
Looking at the food covered table and the restaurant full of staring eyes, Graves found it hard to disagree with him.
“Which one’s your favorite?”
“That one,” Graves said, pointing to the broccoli cheddar soup.
Credence obligingly took a sip. He considered his mouthful and passed the bowl to Graves a second later.
“Percival?” Credence asked, after he’d tried and passed on the lobster bisque, the beef stew and the minestrone, which was Credence’s way of saying that he didn’t approve of the waste of food.
Graves’ place setting was starting to get a little crowded. He discretely signaled one of the waiters to come and clear it and got the clumsy one instead.
Graves readied a stunning spell, just in case, but the clumsy waiter managed to clear the soup away without incident.
“Yes, darling?” he asked, once the waiter was out of spell range.
“Will you come with me on my next appointment with the Bluebird?”
“Of course,” Graves said, a little baffled. He always went with Credence to his appointments. Credence knew that, so why was he asking?
“Good,” said Credence. “I think she needs to check you for brain damage.”
The witch who was probably a reporter made a tiny noise that was almost certainly laughter.
“She gave me a clean bill of health,” Graves protested.
Credence took a savage bite of balsamic glazed carrot and said, “Damage to the patellar ligaments and the tibialis anterior of the left leg. Healed hairline fractures present on the posterior side of right ribs one through seven, right scapula, right humerus –”
Credence could, would and had recited the entire list of Graves’ injuries to get Graves to do what he wanted. Credence, Graves thought darkly, had taken his lessons about not fighting fair a little too much to heart. (Graves was so fucking proud of him.)
Still. A man didn’t like to have his own tactics used against him. Graves grabbed the nearest appetizer and shoved it into Credence’s mouth, stemming the flow of injuries. The New York Ghost did not need to know the extent of what he’d endured at Grindelwald’s hands. Graves didn't need or want their pity.
“Fine,” Graves conceded. “She said I was an idiot and threatened to skin me for a rug if I injured myself during recovery.”
Credence licked his lips, satisfied as a cat with cream. He had another bite of the carrots and said, “A check-up would be good for you, anyway.”
“As you wish,” Graves sighed.
Credence’s smile was a small, satisfied thing. Graves wanted to lean over and find out how it tasted, but his instincts said now was not the time to demonstrate any sort of vulnerability.
“What happens to the rest of the food?” Credence asked, once a few more plates had been sampled and sent away. He kept hold of the carrots and the roast chicken on its bed of mushroom and leek risotto, curling his fingers protectively around the plate.
“I thought we’d take your favorites home,” Graves said. “The rest will be donated to No-Maj soup kitchens.”
“No-Maj?” Credence asked.
Graves shrugged. “I thought if more of the reputable soup kitchens had adequate supplies and funding, people like Mary Lou won’t gain quite so many followers.”
“Um,” said Credence, looking torn. He stuffed a massive bite of chicken into his mouth while his ears slowly reddened.
Graves stared at him, more than a little concerned. Credence was still chewing with evident pleasure, but he was also getting steadily redder. He caught Credence’s wrist before he could devour and equally massive portion of risotto. “Careful, lovely. If you choke on Chef Bellamy’s food, he’ll have a heart attack and the Bluebird will turn me inside out before she turns me into a rug.”
“Um,” Credence said again, squirming a little.
It hit Graves, suddenly, that he knew exactly what that little fidget meant. It meant Credence wanted Graves to stop whatever it was he was doing and make love to him.
“Oh,” Graves said. “Would you like me to get the check?”
“Yes,” Credence said, looking mortified by his own enthusiasm.
“Give me a moment to deal with Bellamy,” Graves said. And because he was still feeling overprotective and paranoid, he put a shield around Credence. No one would be able to touch him while Graves was gone.
“Percival?” Credence asked sharply. He knew the feel of Graves’ magic almost better than he knew his own, and he was sensitive enough to it to feel the shield like it was a physical object.
“Indulge me?” Graves asked, looking at Credence through his lashes. He didn’t want to worry Credence. Credence didn’t need to be worried, not after everything he’d already been through. Better he thought Graves overprotective than fret over a nonexistent threat.
Credence smiled. “Of course.”