What would Lucas do if you were on really good terms and asked so nicely to try a cigarette? Maybe play a little dumb “are they sweet? They always have them after dessert in old movies” you promise you just want to try one, and you’ll never ask again, “They always have one after sex in all the westerns we watch, please, just once won’t hurt!”
He looks down at where you're nestled into the crook of his arm, your eyes wide and hopeful. The cherry of his cigarette, in his other hand, glows in the low light of the fire-lit room. He raises one eyebrow, his mouth twitching at the corner.
"Didn't your daddy ever tell you that they're bad for you?" He asks, but you're grateful to hear that there's amusement in the softness of his voice. You play it up a little; push out your bottom lip in a pout and snuggle further in.
"You have one every night," you tell him. "I don't want you doing anything that's bad for you!"
That wins a soft laugh, and he leans in to press a kiss to the top of your head before he pulls back, taking another slow drag of the cigarette. Smoke puffs from his mouth on the exhale.
"My daddy told me," he says, and you almost freeze; he speaks so rarely of his life before all of this that you could be forgiven for thinking he sprung into being fully-formed, here in this carefully maintained cabin in the woods. "Didn't really stop me. Even smoke the same kind he did." He gives you a slow, considering look - you do your best to keep your face guileless.
You've smoked before, of course. Smoked and drank and done all kinds of things you'd never dare ask about nowadays, lest Lucas remember you're a real person with a life before all of this and not the perfect little idealised homemaker he's forced you into.
"Nah," he says, shaking his head. "Don't want you takin' it up. Filthy habit. I oughta quit myself."
Your lip juts out just a little further.
"In those Westerns we watch," you say, "they're always having them--" You let your fingers play with the fabric of his shirt, all too aware of the muscle beneath it, the scars. You cast your eyes down.
He gives a fond little sigh, a roll of his eyes. Your gaze travels back up as he takes another drag of the cigarette in his hand - but this time, he doesn't exhale. This time, he leans his head down - presses his mouth against yours, and when your lips part in surprise he exhales the plume of cigarette smoke directly into your mouth.
It makes you go dizzy; the suddenness of it all, the sensation, the way the smoke dances against your tongue. The heavy smoke taste; Lucas' preferred brand seems to taste all the stronger than the ones you remember sneaking in high school (or maybe you've been here too long)--
You cough, pulling back, your eyes watering.
Lucas watches you, his green eyes keen and knowing, and gives a little nod of satisfaction.
"Told you, darlin'," he says. "They ain't no good for you."
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