A Thousand Tomorrows
In answer to this anonymous request: can you pls write something for Credence based on “can i hold your hand?” & “i love you today, and i’ll love you tomorrow and everyday after that.”? feel free to make it extra fluffy if you wish!! thank you
A/N: Arghhh, I’ve gotten so behind on answering requests and I’ve been very busy with other things as well. But I promise, I’m slowly working through each of them!
Again, do let me know if there’s anything you’d like to see me write!
title: A Thousand Tomorrows
warnings: fluff, slight mentions of abuse, fluff, fluff, fluff, fluffffff
Sometimes, Credence thinks he’s living in a daydream.
That certainly seems to be the case, especially when he wakes up each morning to the tantalizing smell of pastries, freshly baked and bought from Mr. Kowalski’s store. Tina makes it a habit to drop them off each day, but rarely has time to enjoy them before rushing off to work.
Or maybe it’s Newt’s fantastic, marvelous case of equally fascinating creatures that makes him think so. He’s found that he particularly likes to look at the bowtruckles. They’re tiny and adorable, and he’s beginning to form an attachment to one of them.
Perhaps it’s the way Ms. Goldstein, the golden haired one who smiles sadly whenever she sees him, always comes by to make him a dinner so large he can never finish it. He wonders why she always winces when his thoughts meander towards Mary Lou and the sting of the belt across his palm.
Or maybe, Credence decides, it’s the fact that you’re there with him.
You, with your sincere smiles. You, with your sleepy good mornings. You, with the way you’ll cry for him when he wakes, trembling from nightmares, reciting all the poisonous lies Mary Lou branded into him, palms proffered, braced for a beating.
He wonders what makes you so magical.
It’s in the way you talk, Credence realizes, staring in what he believes is an inconspicuous manner. (It’s not.) Perhaps the magic is laced in the curve of your lips, in the twinkle of your eyes when you chatter on, just the right amount of excited. He feels a sort of strange, alien fluttering in his stomach, and he falters, unsure of whether he likes it or not.
It’s in the way you laugh, Credence amends, watching as you pause to snicker at a joke Newt’s just made, attempting to suppress your laughter. You’re mostly failing, and he finds that his own mouth is copying yours, grinning. He hastily corrects himself. The magic, he says firmly, is in the way you beam, infectious and giddy. There’s that funny feeling again, Credence notes. He thinks he likes it.
It’s definitely in the way you love, Credence revises. His gaze follows you as you cradle one of Newt’s Occamies, laughing that familiar, bell-like laugh, before you set it down in its nest. There’s an undeniable magical quality to the way you whisper ‘I love you’, to the hushed, secretive nature of your voice, as though the words are far too big to be contained should anyone else hear it.
The night is cold, but Credence is not, because you’re there with him. He watches, fascinated, as you laugh into the chilly air, breath puffing out in little gasps, and wonders what it would be like to kiss the breath from your lips. But those are dangerous waters, and his eyes flicker down to your hands instead, exposed to the winter air.
“Can I hold your hand?”
There’s a beat of surprised silence from you, and you turn toward him, eyes wide and shining. He begins to stutter, to backtrack, because oh why did I have to ruin it, he scolds himself. But you’ll have none of that, and he finds your fingers lacing with his, already starting to warm up.
You smile at him, the widest he’s ever seen. And there’s that feeling again, where it’s like the world has dropped beneath him, leaving only you and him, alone in the sky, hands entwined.
“Don’t leave me,” he breathes out, rushed and quiet and everything terrified. He shouldn’t be scared, he really shouldn’t; Newt and Tina and everyone else didn’t spend all this time making sure he knew he was loved for nothing.
But he is, and when you don’t answer, he stares down, shame burning his cheeks, and suddenly, he doesn’t feel like he’s floating anymore. The world has dropped from under his feet, but it’s no longer a pleasant sensation, and he tugs his hand from yours.
You grasp his arm.
You can feel his muscles, thin and starved, tighten beneath your touch. Credence stills, refusing to make eye contact, so you slide in front of him instead, forcing him to look at you.
“Credence,” you begin, “Listen to me.” You reach up to cup his cheeks, and you sense more than hear the slight hitch in his breath. “I will never leave you. I love you, Credence. I love you today, and I’ll love you tomorrow and everyday after that. And in the infinity after death, I’ll continue to love you.”
Your thumb snags on a stray tear, but you’re not quite sure who it belongs to. Credence is happy, and he’s never thought it possible to feel so much. It’s overwhelming, and yet, he likes it. He definitely likes it.
Everything about you, Credence decides firmly, is magic.