[his head turns just a fraction, eye glancing down at the wavy wheat-blonde, trying to gauge that release against him -- but then the relieved sigh against his pallid, freckled neck makes him twitch, startle straight forward once more, all awkward and young]
[(at least she was relaxed, anyway)]
[he mumbles, clumsily but earnestly]
Y'wanna smoke?
[but he doesn't wait for an answer, and the pack and lighter are tugged, a bit ungraceful, out of his jeans pocket (he always has them on him just -- just in case it starts to get bad again)]
[a flare and a spark, he lights one in his mouth, passes it down with ash flecking across bruised knuckles; he doesn't know how else to offer warmth, to make her feel part of something even when she's isolated from someone important]
[he sighs that first inhale out, fog above those wheat-fields below]
[ her head lifts at the question, glances up at his face as the cigarette lights and is passed down, a baton of-- of what? it doesn't matter what. it's shared.
there's a brief pause. a look. startlement maybe, a moment to take in his offer, to register fully the intention of it. and then she reaches out, takes the cigarette between fingers (when you live a toxic life in a place swimming in poison, when you have to come out kicking and screaming or die before you've lived, some extra tar in your lungs is the least of your troubles.) she's had no practice, but she's lived long enough amongst those just starting out and those well-learned to know the theory, and it's raised to her lips so she can take a breath, half smoke-- the cigarette is moved to give space --and half clean air to drag it down.
it sears at her throat, scavenging its way down into her lungs, and Nill is reminded of the empty cavity that must be sitting in place of a voice. it goes down and - ah, there it is, a cough. inevitable but controlled, two meager catches of breath that puff out smoke before she lets the rest go in an exhale.
this isn't something she could enjoy on her own, she notes, as the burn stings and the taste plays on her memory and her senses. but here, as she passes the thing back up to him and settles her head back down (he makes a fine pillow, bones and all, and for now it seems like that might be okay with him), there is a warmth in it that she wouldn't find anywhere else in this place.
staring forward, ruminating, she doesn't feel alone. ]
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Re: action;
[(at least she was relaxed, anyway)]
[he mumbles, clumsily but earnestly]
Y'wanna smoke?
[but he doesn't wait for an answer, and the pack and lighter are tugged, a bit ungraceful, out of his jeans pocket (he always has them on him just -- just in case it starts to get bad again)]
[a flare and a spark, he lights one in his mouth, passes it down with ash flecking across bruised knuckles; he doesn't know how else to offer warmth, to make her feel part of something even when she's isolated from someone important]
[he sighs that first inhale out, fog above those wheat-fields below]
Re: action;
there's a brief pause. a look. startlement maybe, a moment to take in his offer, to register fully the intention of it. and then she reaches out, takes the cigarette between fingers (when you live a toxic life in a place swimming in poison, when you have to come out kicking and screaming or die before you've lived, some extra tar in your lungs is the least of your troubles.) she's had no practice, but she's lived long enough amongst those just starting out and those well-learned to know the theory, and it's raised to her lips so she can take a breath, half smoke-- the cigarette is moved to give space --and half clean air to drag it down.
it sears at her throat, scavenging its way down into her lungs, and Nill is reminded of the empty cavity that must be sitting in place of a voice. it goes down and - ah, there it is, a cough. inevitable but controlled, two meager catches of breath that puff out smoke before she lets the rest go in an exhale.
this isn't something she could enjoy on her own, she notes, as the burn stings and the taste plays on her memory and her senses. but here, as she passes the thing back up to him and settles her head back down (he makes a fine pillow, bones and all, and for now it seems like that might be okay with him), there is a warmth in it that she wouldn't find anywhere else in this place.
staring forward, ruminating, she doesn't feel alone. ]