When Credence shifts, when he ducks his head down into the warmth of the scarf to beat the wind, his senses are overcome with the scent of Mr. Graves. It’s so much more than the time he wore Mr. Graves’ coat – now, it is everywhere. It feels very much like he is burying his face in Mr. Graves’ neck and is breathing him in. The scent is comforting, warming, invigorating. Perhaps even more dizzying than the alcohol.
When the wind picks up, howling through the valleys of the skyscrapers, Mr. Graves moves and loops his arm around Credence’s shoulder. His hand is solid and warm, holding Credence tight. Keeping him from blowing away.