[ Their paths cross in the strangest and most mundane of ways.
It happens one fine night, when Graves chooses to walk instead of having the chauffeur bring the car around. It's a nice night, and despite his position and influence not very many know his face -- and he prefers it that way; he doesn't need a battalion of agents crowding around him when he wants to be alone. Hands in the pockets of his greatcoat, he strolls downtown. It might be dangerous in this part of the neighborhood, but he's very sure that one or two of his agents are just beyond immediate reach, keeping a keen eye on him.
Helps, perhaps, for the Bureau not to have egg on its face if it turns out that their chief and fearless leader ended up dead at knifepoint by some mugger or something. They respond at impressive speed, too, when said mugger actually turns up, pale and scrappy and hungry, handsome in the way sad-eyed boys can be; his exquisite cheekbones and a sensuously generous mouth just about assuring him a fortune if he decided to spread his legs and turn a trick.
Then again, whores are statistically more likely to die violently at the hands of their misguided johns, and the boy before him looks too determined to roll the dice on that.
Credence Barebone tries to rob the Director at knifepoint and Graves allows him enough time to regret that decision at gunpoint of three very seasoned agents (who have no problems with pulling the trigger) before he dismisses them, and takes him to dinner.
Dinner becomes something else, an invitation to live with him when he discovers that Credence doesn't have a home. Call it a rare flash of compassion or an error in judgement -- surely his minders believe half and half of both -- Graves now has a housemate (or a stray, or a sugar baby without the perks) for better or worse. Credence turns out to be very good company, a sensible young man half his age who is as beautiful as he is stubborn, and while Graves is explicably attracted, while Credence makes increasing appearances in lewd fantasies in the shower, Graves makes no overtures.
He must not; any made would be from an unfair position, and he's silent when he comes into his fist under scalding hot showers.
Days turn to weeks to months, and Graves finds himself face to face with Credence in his study, where he's set aside his last report for the night. The study smells faintly of smoke and whiskey and so does Graves, who's setting his glasses carefully aside. ]
It's late. [ He murmurs, regarding him steadily. ] Can't sleep?
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It happens one fine night, when Graves chooses to walk instead of having the chauffeur bring the car around. It's a nice night, and despite his position and influence not very many know his face -- and he prefers it that way; he doesn't need a battalion of agents crowding around him when he wants to be alone. Hands in the pockets of his greatcoat, he strolls downtown. It might be dangerous in this part of the neighborhood, but he's very sure that one or two of his agents are just beyond immediate reach, keeping a keen eye on him.
Helps, perhaps, for the Bureau not to have egg on its face if it turns out that their chief and fearless leader ended up dead at knifepoint by some mugger or something. They respond at impressive speed, too, when said mugger actually turns up, pale and scrappy and hungry, handsome in the way sad-eyed boys can be; his exquisite cheekbones and a sensuously generous mouth just about assuring him a fortune if he decided to spread his legs and turn a trick.
Then again, whores are statistically more likely to die violently at the hands of their misguided johns, and the boy before him looks too determined to roll the dice on that.
Credence Barebone tries to rob the Director at knifepoint and Graves allows him enough time to regret that decision at gunpoint of three very seasoned agents (who have no problems with pulling the trigger) before he dismisses them, and takes him to dinner.
Dinner becomes something else, an invitation to live with him when he discovers that Credence doesn't have a home. Call it a rare flash of compassion or an error in judgement -- surely his minders believe half and half of both -- Graves now has a housemate (or a stray, or a sugar baby without the perks) for better or worse. Credence turns out to be very good company, a sensible young man half his age who is as beautiful as he is stubborn, and while Graves is explicably attracted, while Credence makes increasing appearances in lewd fantasies in the shower, Graves makes no overtures.
He must not; any made would be from an unfair position, and he's silent when he comes into his fist under scalding hot showers.
Days turn to weeks to months, and Graves finds himself face to face with Credence in his study, where he's set aside his last report for the night. The study smells faintly of smoke and whiskey and so does Graves, who's setting his glasses carefully aside. ]
It's late. [ He murmurs, regarding him steadily. ] Can't sleep?