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"Hey, kid."
Simon blinked at the sudden dim red glow in the dark.
"Kid," came the voice again, from the direction of the glow. What was that?
"Who disturbs my solitude?" he asked, well aware that the drama of the words would be off-putting. That was the point, after all.
"Heh. You're a fine one. Look, if you keep crying all night, none of us can sleep."
As Simon's eyes adjusted to the weak light, he was able to make out more of the figure in front of him in this, the larger group cell. The glow was coming from the other man's... face? He sat at the table in the middle of the room, and motioned him over with one hand in a lazy gesture. In response, Simon only said, "I'm being quiet."
Ignoring the response, the seeming cyborg said, "And all that pacing. Sheesh. It's enough to wake the dead from their slumber in Hell itself. Come 'ere."
Simon first clutched his pillow more tightly to himself. It's not like the other man could see the childish gesture in this low a light, right? Yet there was a smug harumph from the table. A little ashamed, even if unreasonably, Simon put the pillow aside and walked to the table. "I'm quiet. I don't see how it matters to you. There are inmates who spend their time screaming their rage to the unreachable skies, and you shame me for my solitary weeping?"
Again, a light laugh. "Look, kid, if I'm worrying about you all night, I'm never gonna get any sleep. So settle down."
Simon stiffened. "I do not recall asking for your concern, Mr.--"
The glow seemed to flash. "They call me Godot, though once I had a name that meant something. Nothing you have to know now, in this Hell we both share." Despite the darkness of the words, the man--Godot's tone was oddly bright. Simon realized he did know the name. He realized that the "Hell" they both shared was not just prison, but that of defenders of the law sentenced to a permanent stay in the grayest of hotels.
"Well, Godot, your concern is no concern of mine." He crossed his arms imperiously.
Godot smirked and pulled a chair out. "Siddown, sonny. Let me bring you a hot cup of truth." Out of no place or possibility, a large mug slid into Godot's waiting hand with an audible "SHOONK."
Simon stared in the darkness, sure he had simply failed to see it initially because of the low light. "What is...?" Then the aroma hit him. "Where did you get coffee?"
"I told you to settle down. You and this cup share a few things in common: tall, dark, and locked up the same as the rest of us." He took a long drag.
"But where did it COME from?" Simon demanded, certain that he would have smelled something that strong before it somehow appeared and slid of its own volition into Godot's hand.
Godot looked keenly at Simon, the expression coming through the mask as easily as if his eyes had been uncovered. "And this is where my hot truth will hit you: It doesn't matter where any of us come from--you, me, this cup of sub-standard black heat... we are all the same here."
Simon felt he was missing something key. Godot's words made a certain kind of strange sense, but the reality, the actual answer.... "It is the dead of night. The kitchens have been closed for hours. And coffee..."
Godot drank deeply, the loud glug sounding keenly in Simon's ears. "Ahhhh... No matter how dim the brew, each cup deserves to be drunk. Here." Again, he held out his hand. SHOONK. "Have a cup of hot night." He offered the fresh cup of coffee to Simon. The warm scent of fresh-brewed coffee once again suffused the night with mystery. The previous cup was... nowhere that Simon could identify.
"That! That is impossible!"
Godot pointed at him with the coffee cup. "Quiet down, Yojimbo! It's the dead of night!"
Simon leaned on the table and clutched his chest. "You want me to be calm because it is night and you are offering me coffee?!"
Godot sneered. "This coffee, as I said, is a hot cup of truth shared from one man to another. If you can't handle it, I have no choice but to--"
Simon knew he didn't need whatever it was that Godot would see as his personal responsibility to dispense. He grabbed the cup with a quick motion. Only his martial training ensured that not a drop was spilled.
"Now... here's the truth." He leaned in, and Simon nervously took a sip. Without cream, it was vile. He really preferred tea. "If you don't keep your tears to yourself, they're never going to stop calling you fresh meat. If you have to cry," and Godot's voice became husky indeed, "you have to do it so no one can see."
Simon drank another sip, the dark brew getting to him. He almost... liked it? He laughed suddenly, inappropriately. He slammed a hand on the table. "Fine for you to say, oyaji! You have the perfect camouflage to your pain!"
Godot leaned back, hands on hips. "Yes. Now that you have drunk of my knowledge, you will have to brew your own." He sounded suddenly serious, the smug tone vanished.
Simon looked up. He was not aware yet, but the coffee cup had vanished.
"I won't be around for much longer, and when I'm gone... you'll have to make it on your own. You won't get the sweet release I have, not for a while yet. All you can do, kid, is savor the cups left." He waved a hand with a dramatic panache, and stood. "Now try to get some sleep, and we'll see how you handle the long, black nights from now on."
Simon felt something wide open inside of himself. There was something strangely correct in Godot's words. A trembling started deep within himself as he went back to his cold, hard bunk.
The trembling, however, continued until twitching jitters took over his whole body.
He really did prefer tea.