cement and cigarettes

Sitting on the cold cement floor with his head tipped back to the wall, Mackenzie muses on the distinctive smell of blood. He is almost used to it, as much as anyone can be, thanks to his years on the force. But that doesn’t make it any less unpleasant, and it doesn’t stop that curl of fear that tickles the back of his throat. Maybe it’s a primal instinct, that fear: Smell blood? Better run. 

There is nothing to run from, now. So instead, Mackenzie pulls out his half-finished cigarette. 

“Got anymore?” 

In all the countless cases and crime scenes they have investigated together, Mackenzie has never once seen Peter smoke. His hand hovers over the pocket where he keeps his pack. “One of these?” 

“What else? Hurry the fuck up, I’m dying here.” 

The morbid attempt at humour falls so heavy that Mackenzie can almost see dust rise from its impact. His fingers fumble as he pulls the box back out. He slides the smoke into the corner of Peter’s mouth and flicks the lighter six times before a flame springs up. 

“This is disgusting,” decides Peter after a long minute. He raises a trembling hand then changes his mind and leaves the cigarette in his mouth. 

Mackenzie grunts. 

"I thought maybe it wouldn't be. You seem to like these cancer sticks well enough. So I thought... see, I thought maybe I'd give it a try. Thought maybe I was missing out. Thought... maybe you were on to something." 

"You never had a smoke before?" 

As usual, Peter doesn't bother to answer the questions Mackenzie actually voices aloud. After a few minutes of quiet, Mackenzie reaches across to lower the man's eyelids. He takes back the cigarette, stares at it heavily, and then sets it on the floor at Peter's feet. 

He thinks the room ought to feel emptier, now.