Originally posted on AO3.
seal-girl by Peter Davies
The selkie sits on solemn sands,
Her hair a curtain wet.
She sings her songs of splendid seas -
A shining silhouette.
Her lily coat lies loosely strung,
Her shoulders slim and white,
She sighs with sounds of salty spray;
A voice of naught and night.
Graves
The boy who washes up on the seashore is mute.
Pale and salt-soaked, he's curled up in a ball near shallows, protecting the naked slip of his belly and the curve of his genitals from the knife-laced wind. When Graves first sees him, he thinks he's a faerie from one of the silly legends his da liked to tell back in the day—skin as soft as powdered snow, hair as black as pitch and drenched from the sea, cheeks ruddy and pretty as the sunset. But Da's faeries never had lips that went bluey or nail-beds that flushed purple from the chill or flesh that froze in the cold Irish December.
"Are you alright?" Graves shouts over the whistling wind.
The boy says nothing.
For a short second, Graves thinks about just walking away. Because he can see Trouble lurking over the boy's shoulders, hiding in the shadows of a clenched jaw, stalking the boy's feet. But then he sees the eyes. Dark and liquid and wild, they flutter and thick lashes beat against the boy's high, cold-flushed cheek, and Graves reaches out.
It is nothing to shrug off his coat and place it about the boy's delicate, frozen shoulders. The boy shudders into it, clutching at the fabric jealously with blue fingers, and that makes up Graves' mind.
He carries the boy home in his arms, a slight, kitten-weak thing that clings to Graves' shoulders tremblingly. Graves can't remember the last time someone touched him in this way, if anyone had ever touched him in this way, desperate and trembling. And although he knows the boy is snuggling down into his shoulder in search of his body heat, and not out of affection, Graves can't help the flush of pleasure from the sweet touch, can't help but close his eyes as he feels strands of wet hair brush against his cheek and settle icily against his neck.
"Don't worry, you're safe now," he whispers and feels the boy shake.
His home isn't much, a tiny cabin sat on a high sand bank that overlooks the craggy shore, but the boy only looks about wonderingly and closes his eyes greedily as they step into the living room, the warmth sweet and loving on his chilled body.
Graves runs the boy a steaming bath, worried for the state of the little fingers and toes. They are more a pale blue than a dark, evil purple though, so he thinks the digits are safe from frostbite, but still. He blows on them with his hot breath, instructs the boy to do the same while he gathers towels and lays them on the radiators to heat up.
The boy makes a little noise of pleasure once Graves settles him into the bath, a soft "oh," that sends shivers down Graves spin as the hot water splashes and smacks against numbed, slicked skin. He's a pretty little thing in the water, long hair swirling about him like a cloud of ink in the water, white skin flushing peach and apple from the heat, eyes gone dewy with pleasure. But he's too weak to wash himself, fumbling fingers nearly dropping the soap and he can barely raise his arms to splash his face with warm water.
He makes a wretched sound, frustrated and sniffling, and Graves' heart breaks.
"Here, love, let me, c'mon."
The boy watches quietly as Graves kneels next to the tub, ignoring his aching knees (he's just turned forty last month, his bones aren't as young as they used to be) to help this soft-eyed boy who needs him. And it's a strange feeling to be needed for something as mundane and as simple as taking a bath. A strange, but heady feeling, being needed, a surge of power that makes Graves shudder from it.
But power or not, Graves takes the soap and a soft washcloth gladly and runs it down the sweet dip of the boy's spine, so thin and delicate that he can count the gentle bones. The boy hums happily, lids half-open, and it fills Graves up with a well of warmth, not unlike drinking a hot drink on a dreary day. It's only when Graves starts washing the thin little chest and smooth belly that he sees the bruises.
They're mottled all over the boy's soft hips and thighs, patterning the boy from dark blues and purples to shades of rotted green and yellow. Graves is frozen at the sight of them, cupping one slim thigh as he stares at the ugly print of a man's hand on this boy. A red film descends over his eyes, tinting everything in shades of blood, and he can feel his heartbeat throbbing with anger.
(The very thought of the boy, sobbing and in pain under the heavy weight of a faceless, cruel-fingered man makes Graves' stomach roil, a beast roaring in his chest, fingers clenching around an invisible throat).
He only jerks out of his trance when he feels the boy quivering. At first, he thinks the poor thing is cold and reaches out to start the hot water tap, but then he glances at the boy's face.
The tears slide like rain droplets down the boy's cheeks, some of them slipping over the plump of his bottom lip, and his nose goes bright from sniffling.
"Oh, love," says Graves softly, sleeves heavy with water, knee caps aching from kneeling too long, and he draws the boy close, lets the sweetling dampen his shirt as he cries. He feels the soft, smooth skin under his arms, hears the boy stuttered, hitching breaths. "It'll be okay. It'll be okay."
Inside, he thinks what happened to you? What are you running from?
Graves dries the boy with heated towels, and it's a challenge—the boy cannot stand, eyes glazed and not all there, unable to help. His skin now burns with sweet fever, delirious, and so he lies listless in the tub as Graves pats him dry. It's easy to carry him from the bathroom, a white towel dangling from boyish hips. Graves places the boy onto the cover of his bed, and it's startling, the moon skin bright against the dark sheets. The boy swallows a few Tylenol with a little coaxing and draws long pulls of water from a tall glass Graves keeps by the bedside. It's only once the boy settles against the comforter that Graves kneels in front of the boy, sliding reassuring hands over the little one's wrists when he whimpers in confusion, skin hot to the touch.
(Graves refuses to think about how easy it is, to get on his knees for the soft-eyed creature, a priest supplicating himself before God and his angels.)
"I don't want to, darling, but I have to check," he whispers into the night.
The boy trembles, but nods as Graves gently, so gently, unwraps the towel from around the boy's waist, revealing the plush, bruised thighs and the plump, soft cock. Graves sucks in a breath—the boy is so white, the few points of color the beautifully pink nipples, flushed cheeks, the berry mouth, and peach-headed cock.
(And the ugly, spattered bruises, but thinking of it gives Graves heartburn).
But Graves is not here to gawk without reason, and so he gently spreads the boy's legs. The sweetling lets out a little cry, but there is no shame, only gentle confusion, and the boy only sighs as little as Graves trails a finger down his little ass to press at the smooth, silky skin of his rose.
Graves does not linger, simply feels the untouched flesh, not allowing himself to look, and retreats, blushing like a milkmaid felt up the first time, but unbearably relieved. The boy is furled tightly and dry, no blood or wounds or abnormal ridges that Graves can feel.
If the boy had shown signs of sexual assault, Graves doesn't know whathe would have done. He doesn't.
But the boy was not harmed in that horrific manner, and Graves breaths a prayer of thanks to God for the first time in years.
He tears his eyes away from the sweet swell of hips and avoids looking at the pretty pink bundle between the boy's white legs. He's trying to be good, trying to be kind, so he wraps the boy up in soft fleece blankets and herds him out of the bedroom and in front of the warm, fire-flaring hearth of the den. The boy shivers, still nude, as Graves scrambles around looking for clothes.
But still, the boy doesn't speak. He responds a little as Graves gently clothes him in his softest longsleeve and sweatpants.
"C'mon, love, head up," Graves murmurs, helping the boy pop his head of curls through the hole. "Good job, good job. Give me your feet now." The boy's lithe, pale legs slip into the pants easily, and Graves is very careful not to let his fingers linger anywhere inappropriate. It's rather funny, at first, to see how very ill Graves' fit the boy, sleeves hanging loose over thin fingers, the sweatpants dragging across the floor, but then Graves looks too long and it becomes arousing—the silkiness of a bared shoulder, the lovely hollow of the throat, the sharp jut of his pelvis poking up over the waistband.
Graves feels hot, dazed, meets those depthless, fever-bright eyes, and jerks out of it. He mumbles an excuse and busies himself by moving his little lumpy sofa as close as he can to the fire, so the boy can settle and thaw more easily. He's in a bad way, breath thick and rattly in his chest, and Graves can picture him slipping, growing cold and blank, and a sudden terror fills his lungs like ice-water.
"Please don't take him," Graves finds himself praying. "Please, Lord, don't do that to me, please."
...
Graves stays awake half the night watching over the little one. He dozes in his favorite armchair, ten minute stretches at a time, slams open his eyes awake to smooth the thick, damp hair away from the boy's heat-slick forehead and tend to the low-lying fire. He coaxes cool water down the boy's throat, rearranges the blankets, is even able to get the boy to swallow a few mouthfuls of sweet porridge in a slight moment of clarity. The boy himself wakes Graves up a few times during the night, shrill little whines from nightmares pulling Graves out of his sleep and drawing him to the boy's bedside.
"Go to sleep, sweet, shh," he murmurs, and the boy settles, tossing and turning receding under Graves' gentling.
God against all odds is kind for once, and the fever breaks a few hours after midnight after raging like a forest fire for most of the night. But still, Graves doesn't retreat to his room, but curls up more properly in his chair and grants himself sleep.
It's only when the sun stretches grey-lavender fingers across the clouded sky that he gets up, puttering around to make breakfast and brush his teeth, letting the boy rest for a mite longer.
"What happened to you?" Graves murmurs aloud, and is almost startled when the boy shifts and sits up, awake. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, lad."
The boy trembles for a moment, eyes wild and blown wide for a moment before recognition sets in, and the shoulders untense. Thankfully, the boy seems incredibly alert compared to only a few hours before.
"It's alright, lovely, you're safe here." Graves keeps his voice low and smooth. The boy's hair has dried into long, glossy ringlets, and Graves can't help but brush his fingers through them gently, feeling the silk curl against Graves' rough, wind-chafed skin."There's a lad. Could you tell me your name?"
The boy blushes at the gentle touch, but shakes his head, taps his throat. Can't speak.But then a light blooms in the dark eyes. He mimes writing in the air, hands and arms trembling with the effort. Luckily it only takes a few moments for Graves to track down a pen and paper.
Credence, scrawled in a swirly, girlish cursive, stands black and striking against the white of the paper.
"Credence," Graves reads aloud, a heavy name. "You're safe now. I swear it."
Credence smiles, and, with his lips pink and soft instead of paling, chapped blue, he looks like the most beautiful thing Graves has ever seen.
The boy writes quickly, but his hands tremble clumsily with exhaustion, and the long sharp strokes nearly rip the page in two carelessly.
What's your name?
Graves is faintly ashamed at not having introduced himself from the very beginning—his Mam would've surely killed him for not minding his manners.
"Ah, I'm Graves. Or Percival, but hardly anyone calls me that anymore, not since Uni." He huffs a laugh, deliberately soft so as not to startle the lad. "What arewe goin' to do with you, then, eh?"
Credence blinks up at him, butterfly-shy and nervous, and he goes for the pen again, but the boy fumbles and there's the clatter of metal falling to the ground, and the boy is going pink and wet-eyed with frustration.
"I'm so sorry, lovely," Graves murmurs, reaches out to the pat the little weak hands and put them into the boy's lap to rest. "But you've got to be patient. You nearly died out there."
Credence bows his head, staring out at the flames in the hearth. The flicker of light across the high cheekbones and the deep lips and dark eyes make Graves blink and wonder if the boy really is a faerie come to life.
…
Sergeant Tina Goldstein doesn't know when to mind her own damned business.
"I'm sure we can manage just fine, Graves. It's only a week off. I'm just worried—you haven't taken a vacation day since last Christmas," and her voice dips with suspicion. "Is everything alright?"
"Oh, yeah, I'm fine," Graves mutters into the phone-mouth, casting long, distracted glances at the pretty boy asleep on his couch. "It's—erm, it's family business, you understand. An old aunt called up."
"Oh." He can hear the confused frown through the phone. "Well, let me know when you're ready to come in."
"Of course, yes." Graves half-heartedly makes vapid small talk for a few more minutes before they say their goodbyes and what not, and the phone clicks into its holder when he puts it down. He tiptoes carefully into the sitting room, knowing Credence is dozing gently, unwilling to wake him.
The boy sleeps deeply, lashes casting long, deep shadows on his cheeks in the firelight. He's sprawled on the couch, half covered by the mountain of blankets and pillows Graves had collected for him, and even though Credence looks incredibly comfortable and warm and safe, Graves has such an intense urge to carry him to Graves' bedroom and tuck him gently in bed that he wonders if he's losing it.
He clenches his fists and tries to distract himself by turning to the book he'd abandoned before finding Credence on the seashore. But his heart's racing and his thoughts are full of Credence, the faerie he fished out of the sea, not the droll protagonist or her lackluster love interest, and five minutes passes before Graves realizes he's been staring at Credence in repose instead of turning the page.
He slaps the book shut with a sigh, and gives in. He sits next to the boy napping on the couch, carefully touches the smooth brow to check for fever. Credence is warm, but not sickly, and instead looks remarkably healthy for someone literally spat out of the sea only a day ago. Cheeks flushed prettily, breaths deep and even, he could've been anyone's son, sleeping through a perfectly good Saturday, avoiding schoolwork and responsibilities. Or perhaps someone's lover, drowsy from post-coitus and happy and spoiled.
Graves hates to wake him, but it's been a good five hours and the boy hasn't had anything to eat since the fever broke. So he touches the warm shoulder and murmurs, "Wake up, lovely, wake up. Time for a quick bite."
Credence wakes like he's swimming up from a deep pool, slow and elegant, lashes lifting gently, legs and arms shifting under the blankets, the smooth arch and stretch of a neck and the waggle of fingers.
"Hullo there," Graves whispers, unbearably charmed.
Credence smiles brightly, eyes muddled for a moment before clearing. The boy sits up, rubs a fist in his eye too roughly for Graves' tastes, and yawns, little pink tongue curling like a kitten's.
"Had a good nap there, did you?" Graves says. "Hungry?"
Credence merely blinks at him, and there is a low grumble of hunger from the boy's stomach. Credence blushes and Graves laughs.
"That answers that, I think." Graves stands. "Do you—what would you like? Do you eat meat?"
Credence nods, looking around for his little pen and pad of paper, and Graves retrieves the items from his writing desk, knowing the boy is still too weak to stand by himself.
"You think you're strong enough to write some today?" he asks. The boy nods eagerly. He proves himself by scribbling a little note and pushing the crumpled paper into Graves' palm, fingers soft and cool and only trembling the slightest bit.
Thank you.
The words follow Graves to the kitchen, where he fixes sandwiches for them both and brews a hot pot of tea.
"Time for a change of scenery," Graves says, coming back into the living room, only to find Credence trying to stand on his own—unsuccessfully. The boy is clinging to the back of the couch, trying to rest his weight on legs too weak to cooperate, and Graves scoops the boy up quickly, just in time to see the boy's knees buckle.
"Jaysus Christ, are you insane?" Graves yelps. Credence is a trembling, warm, terrified weight in his arms, and the boy hides his face in Graves' neck. "Oh, love, you're not well yet. Yeh have to have patience."
Credence makes a little, dissatisfied noise, and Graves huffs a soft laugh, ruffling the long curls at Credence's nape. "It's okay, it's okay. Just a small bump, don't worry."
He carries the boy into the kitchen, sits Credence down at the table, making sure he's comfortable. "Good?"
Credence nods shyly, staring at the little cup of tea sat next to his hand.
Graves scratches the back of his neck sheepishly. "Wasn't sure what'cha liked, exactly. Didn't know if you preferred sugar or not." He quickly pours two spoonfuls of sugar into the tea, watches the powder melt down and tries not to think of what Credence would taste like after drinking it, warm and sweet and earthy.
The boy smiles up at him gratefully, and Graves feels the tops of his cheeks warm before he clears his throat loudly and focuses on his own food. But even that distraction is short-lived, because although Credence can't speak, he can hum and make little, satisfied noises that disarm Graves terribly.
He glances up and he doesn't know why it's so satisfying, seeing Credence devour the food with the reverence of a priest receiving communion, but Graves feels a flood of warmth in his ribcage, a sort of self-satisfaction humming in his blood, and he thinks I did that as the boy makes his little happy noises, soft hums, eyelids falling to half-mast with pleasure.
…
Credence
Graves, the man who's rescued him, is kind. His voice is a low, gentle burr, his hands are large but soft on Credence's paper-frail skin, and he has a light in his eyes that the Other Man didn't.
His home is warm and his hearth is lively, and Credence could stay and stare at the flicker of the flames forever and never be restless.
The food Graves makes him is strange, but good. There is no tang of salt or bitter aftertaste of fish, but instead tender, savory meat placed between sweet bread, the crunch of lettuce, the soft give of cheese. He eats greedily, never having tasted anything so good before.
Warm and full and good, he thinks to himself that he wouldn't really mind being caught by this man. Not really.
…
Graves
He wakes up two mornings after the boy appears to an empty house, and he panics.
The couch is neatly made, the blankets folded and pressed, the pillows rearranged prettily, and Graves is terrified. He becomes an idiot for a good few minutes before he finds his mind enough to glance outside and—oh.
A pale figure, down by the shoreline. Credence is bent down, ankle-deep in the very water that had tried to kill him only a day ago, water lapping at his hands playfully, and he looks up guilelessly when Graves calls his name. There's a quick smile, visible from even this distance, and Graves breathes.
"Credence!" he calls, and there's an overwhelming sense of relief, yes, but also fury. The boy was so weak the past day he could barely walk, and he wakes up this morning and has the gall to dare the universe to try and drown him again? He's not dressed for the weather, either, only an overly large sweater and soft, damp-hemmed sweatpants barely protecting him from the chilled wind.
The boy straightens with obvious effort as Graves reaches him, but he's still smiling, the fool, and Graves is about to yell at him for risking his life and thinking himself invincible when the boy reaches out and the wrath dies in Graves' throat. Credence's hands are freezing and wet, and so are the smooth, glossy pearls that are dropped into Graves' palm.
Graves freezes. "What're these?"
Credence just smiles and blinks up at him, closes his lax fingers around the little treasures. A gesture:for you.
Graves stares at him, down to the pearls, and back again. They really are quite gorgeous, smooth and hard and cold, like perfectly rounded ice that won't melt, and they're worth more than what Graves could make in a lifetime. An almost overflowing handful, and the boy just gives themto Graves.
"Where in the seven hells did you find these?" Graves finally forces out.
But Credence shakes his head and steps back when Graves holds them out again.
"Credence, I can't take these," Graves insists, thrusting the little pearls into the boy's chest. "I can't, I won't. Do you know how much these are worth? What you could do with this type of money?"
But Credence looks at him, pleading with his eyes, plum mouth trembling, and if the boy starts crying because Graves won't take money that's rightfully Credence's, Graves' going to have a stroke.
"We—we should talk about this inside," Graves stammers, shoving the goddamn pearlsinto his pocket.
It becomes very evident that Credence only made it this far out from sheer effort, because he walks very slowly and very carefully. The second time Credence nearly lands on his face, slim feet stumbling in the damp sand, Graves scoops the boy into his arms and carries him the rest of the way and feels a sense of déjà vu that he never wants repeated. Even the memory of Credence naked and cold and near death makes something freeze deep in Graves' gullet, and a reddish cloud of anger gathers in his chest as he thinks about what he would do to anyone who tried to hurt the poor lad.
"Cocoa first, and then we're going to have a chat," he says forbiddingly, but the boy only ducks his head down into Graves' neck, breath sweet and warm against Graves' throat, and tightens his grip on Graves' shoulders. Graves feels his anger fade in favor of exasperated fondness. He presses his lips to the wild curls, and thinks I'm in trouble.
Credence likes the hot cocoa quite a bit despite it being made from store bought powder and not from Kowalski Quality Baked Goods, Graves' favorite. The boy sips carefully, but reverently, and Graves has to audibly tell the boy to slow down.
"It's a bit rich, innit?" he says with a wink. "We don't want you getting any tummy aches, now."
Credence blushes delightfully, and Graves only lasts a few minutes of watching the boy drink slowly before pushing a little platter of butter biscuits towards the boy. He's seen the Credence's ribs in the bath, stark and terrifyingly vivid against the skin. He never wants to see his boy so thin again, could never deny him hot food or drink because of it. When Credence became hisboy, he's not quite sure. But so it is.
Credence smiles, but then frowns as Graves places the not insignificant pile of pearls on the middle of the coffee table, the clink and clatter of them ringing out in the kitchen. The boy produces his pen and pad from nowhere, scribbles something quickly, insistently.
For you, Mr Graves. A thank you.
"Credence," Graves says lowly, seriously, and catches Credence's eyes so intensely the boy stares with alarm. "I swear on me life, on me Mam in heaven, that no matter what happens, no matter how well or how ill you get, you will always be welcome here, free of charge. This?" He picks up one of the pearls, rolls it between his thumb and forefinger, puts it down again firmly. "This isn't necessary, my boy."
The boy looks faintly embarrassed at the display of kindness, head dipped down and cheeks red, and Graves captures one of the little pretty hands in his bearish palms before the boy can retreat.
"Oh, you're such a good, kind boy," Graves says fondly. "So considerate."
Credence looks stunned, and then hides his pleased smile and kittenish eyes in his shoulder, squirming with delight, and it takes everything in Graves not to lean over and ravish the boy where he sits.
"Good boy," he whispers instead. "My good, lovely little boy."