GoldGraves drabble from a prompt I got ages ago. Sorry for being so awfully late :3
The office is quiet, shrouded in the velvet and silk of darkness and late Monday afternoon. Stars blink out of the window, high above the sulphur haze of the city. The light is equally divided - half-natural, half-electric; in its glow, the planes of Percival’s face are a study in monochrome.
No, not Percival. Mister Graves.
Tina digs her teeth in her bottom lip, till the words glitter sharp and bright in her mind and seared into it.
He’s Mister Graves, and nothing else.
“You should have it looked at by a real healer,” she says, softly. It feels like talking in a temple - like confessing a secret. The sound rushes up the paneled walls and seeps into then and lingers like perfume. “Doctor Grayson would be happy to help. I’m sure you could call him right now and he’d -”
“There’s no need.” Mister Graves clenches his teeth, the movement betrayed by the fluttering of muscles in his jaw. “Your help is all I need, Goldstein.”
His fingers twitch in hers, the burnt skin reddening and splitting back open, but he doesn’t shake her off. Tina hides her pleasure, cautiously, because she doesn’t want him to slip away just yet.
She reaches for the last roll of gauze laid out on the coffee table. She forces her heart not to race.
“I just… I just don’t want it to get infected, Mister Graves. Healing charms are good and all and I’m nearly done with the bandaging, but I’m not sure I’ve cleaned it thoroughly eno-”
His laugh catches her off guard. It cracks through the air, smelling ozone-y like a bolt - but there’s a kind note to it.
“You shouldn’t trouble yourself so much, Tina,” he says. Trying to smile. “You’ve done more than enough already. Go home; go to your sister and Scamander’s mess of a brother. There’s no reason to be this upset, really. It’s just - just a bruised hand.”
A hesitation. She’s close enough to read on his lips the word he has been about to say, and to feel her chest close and clench with it.
Tina has chewed her lip viciously enough to draw blood. She scoots closer, spurred by her instinct, spurred by the grasp clasped painfully around her ribs. Their knees brush. He looks up. She turns her touch into something more like a caress.
“Why didn’t you tell anyone the Second Salemites tried to burn your hand, Mister Graves?”
“Tina,” he says - a warning or a plea.
She shakes her head. “I saw you wandering around with blood dripping off your fingers. Why didn’t you tell anyone? Why didn’t-”
“I just want to know why, Mister Graves,” she stumbles over the words, her tongue tangling up like yarn. She forces herself to find his eyes. “I’m just concerned. I’m just worried-”
“Because no one cares about me.”
This time, his voice hits her like a slap. Tearing the breath out of her lungs. It’s pitched low, and reasonable, the anger pushed so deep down it’s almost unrecognizable.
Somehow, it makes everything worse.
She feels him - not sees, but feels, through the link of their entwined hands - draw in a breath. “No one cares enough. No one sees enough. A madman wore my face at work for four months, and no one realized it.” He’s trembling, now. The gauze on his knuckles flashing white, a pattern of healed scars glimpsing up his neck. “Obviously, no one cared enough. There’s no other explanation. There’s no need of another explanation. I made peace with it -”
“You shouldn’t.” Tina is leaning forward, even closer, whispering against Percival’s collar before her brain can list her all the reasons this is stupid. The words get out strangled and weak, but when she rests one hand on his chest, his heart is thundering.
“Why shouldn’t I make peace with it?” Percival breathes out, very slowly. “Why, Tina?”
“Because I care about you, Percival,” Tina says. Percival. She’s fallen off the edge, tumbling down the precipice. It doesn’t matter. “I care.”
Percival adverts his gaze.
And suddenly , she’s kissing him. Tilting his head right, and pressing her lips against his, and letting her hand trail up his shoulder and into his hair - and she’s nearly laughing with nerves and elation, because it’s nothing like what she imagined it would feel like. She’s never been the one leading the way, in her fantasies. She’s never been hurting so much.
This is different. Harsher. Better.
When they part, they’re gasping for air. The cold caress of tears is rolling down her cheeks.
Percival is still staring, eyes wide and liquid, cheeks flushed - lips parted and bruised pink. He reaches out, shakingly - weaving fingers around her waist, breathing her in. For the first time in her life, Tina wonders if he’s as intoxicated by her as she is by him.
“Show me, Tina,” he whispers - lips quivering against her throat. “Show me. Please.”
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