Night's Watch


devon2_icon.gif graeme2_icon.gif

Scene Title Night's Watch
Synopsis Graeme is joined by Devon during watch while the rest of the safehouse sleeps.
Date June 8, 2011

Endgame Safehouse

As he'd said, Graeme hasn't had any intention of sleep, and so at this point in the evening, the small camping flashlight that converts into a lamp has come out, providing light for him to read by but still leaving the majority of the common room darker, rather than lit by the larger lamps they use in the early evening when people are still often awake.

There's enough light, like in every room, that if Liz wakes up and comes in, it won't be truly dark, but not much more. Graeme's up against the wall, crosslegged and with a faded blue denim blanket. Possibly the blanket that usually graces his bed at his apartment, book open in his lap. Likely that somewhere under that blanket, out of sight but still easily accessible, is the revolver, or the M9. And so, for the most part, Graeme's watch, taken over from Trask at some point, has been spent in quiet.

After managing to eat most of his supper, Devon had decided to try for more sleep. The last two days have been long, and made even longer by the night time hours spent more awake than asleep. The teen was tired, physically and emotionally drained when he disappeared into his borrowed room and burrowed into his sleeping bag in hopes of finding some rest. He hadn't been gone long, a couple of hours at most before a wordless cry in his own voice dragged him panting from the depths of an unpleasant dream.

Kicking free of the bag, the boy stares wide eyed up at the darkened ceiling, breath coming in shuddering gasps though the memory of the nightmare is already fleeting. A haunting recollection of a past event made worse by more recent experiences. A moment passes before Devon pulls himself to his feet and feels his way to the door, hands fumbling with the knob to gain entry into the rest of the house. It isn't too much longer before he's free of the room and moving toward the common area, arms folding over his chest and shoulders taking on a slight hunch.

Graeme looks up, book set in his lap, worry etching on his face. "Up again?" The question is gentle and concerned, more than anything else. "I could use some company, if you're not going to just try and go back to sleep. Also, there's coffee, and water for tea." Graeme points to the variety of places available to sit. "And I have another few blankets, if you want." Because there are reasons that most people spend the night hours in sleeping bags. It gets cold in the safehouse, for the most part without heating.

Eyes still troubled by whatever had awakened him, Devon lifts his gaze toward the source of the voice. He nods slightly, then changes direction to bypass into the kitchen. It doesn't take him long to find a bottle of water and return to the main living space. "Just a dream," the teen explains, settling onto the floor near Graeme's feet. His legs cross and fold, elbows resting against his knees while he twists open the bottle.

Graeme nods. "Yeah. Sometimes I guess I'm lucky I really don't need to sleep that much," he admits, voice hushed more to keep from waking those who are managing to sleep. "And what little I do get, I don't remember when I wake." But, Graeme doesn't press the matter further, instead letting the teenager choose and set the topic of conversation.

A long drink is taken from the bottle of water, nearly a third gone before Devon lowers it again. "Sometimes I wish I didn't need to sleep much," he admits, staring at the water. "I'm fine though, I can finish out watch with you then sleep when everyone else is getting up for breakfast." It'll save him from having to eat much, giving an opportunity for a couple hours' rest and then a light meal while most people are busy.

There's a half smile offered to the teenager, and Graeme pulls the blanket up over his shoulders a bit more. There's a bookmark put into the book, and the book pushed to one side. And then a nod. "Good," he says, "like I said, I could use the company. Though I don't get … bored, either. Not so much as anyone else would understand it. Because it doesn't bother me." He shakes his head and shrugs to Devon.

In spite of himself, a yawn cracks Devon's jaws. He places his bottle of water on the floor near his knee, then rubs a hand over his forehead. "I'm going to find a pay phone tomorrow and give Kincaid a call," he says, dropping his hand. "Do you want him to call you, or meet somewhere? —I know Liz is wary, but… Maybe I should meet with you two. Since I kinda spilled some knowledge that's not mine to share."

Graeme looks distant for a moment, before reaching over and opening one of the outer pockets of the frame backpack, then tossing Devon a cheap prepaid cell. "Here," says the teacher. "Use this, then he can call you back easily. And if you think that he's not going to turn tail and turn you — or me — in, then having you along would be good." Graeme's quiet, thoughtful at the moment. "But please tell me you're sure he's not about to just meet us with the authorities behind him?" Because it's risky, meeting, and what Graeme's doing is enough to have him put away for a damn long time, and he knows it.

Catching the phone, Devon nods slowly. "I think he can be trusted for this, but there's really no way to tell until I make contact." He believes the assistant producer can be trusted, but also knows it’s a fine line being walked now, and keeping Graeme in the free and clear is a priority. The teen sets the phone down beside then sits up to rub his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I’ll call him first and …try to get a feel for things while keeping your name out. No way to gauge how deep I am anymore and better they stay looking for me than eying others.” That’s a frightening thought, but one he’d used before. The teen drags his hands through his hair then snatches his bottle of water again, tipping back another series of swallows.

Graeme nods. "Alright, then," he says. There's a measure of trust in Devon's judgment, here, implicit in that Graeme doesn't ask any more questions of the teenager. There's a while of just sitting in silence, before the teacher speaks again. "Thanks, by the way."

Lowering the bottle again, Devon's eyes slant toward Graeme, confused. "For what," he asks, twisting the cap back onto the water bottle.

Graeme glances over towards where the spare burn phone has been put aside, before giving Devon a look that might even include an eye-roll, as if the teenager is being particularly dense by asking for what. Eventually, though, after paying attention to his cup of coffee for a little, Graeme answers. Well, he looks over at the teenager, and shrugs, and then falls silent, but it seems that's what is going to pass for an answer at the moment.

A brow raises slightly, Devon's gaze following the teacher's look a beat behind. His gaze ticks back up to Graeme and that brow raises just a little bit higher. "I must infuriate you and everyone else sometimes," he states with a sigh, a shadow of a grin touching his expression. "Just trying to do what's right, and not risk more than I have to. I already made a mistake, and it cost too much. I can't do that again."

"Only a little," Graeme responds, teasing more than anything else. "Well, infuriate wouldn't be the right word, but." There's another pause of silence. "I know," he acknowledges, far less teasing and more serious. "But you know, you could at least accept someone thanking you without for what."

With a sigh, Devon drops his gaze, looking away from Graeme. "Sorry, just doesn't seem like I've done anything meriting thanks. His eyes close for a moment, a crease forming between his brows. "You're welcome. And… sorry."

Once more, the teacher nods, and reaches out to rest a hand on Devon's shoulder for a moment. "'Sokay," Graeme responds, then falling silent once more. And he can understand the sentiment Devon expressed, but he'll leave that discussion for later. Or for daytime hours.

Another sigh has Devon gathering up the phone along with his bottled water. He stands and moves off to one of the vacant chairs. A foot nudges it slightly, pushing so the angle allows for his own watch to be kept, another vantage point to compliment Graeme's. Stuffing the phone into a pocket, he sinks into the chair, and in doing so sinks into silence. Of the thoughtful sort. There's plans to be made and thought over if he's going to contact Kincaid in just a few hours.

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