Re: Second Class; Theater smoking room
The devil was relieved.
Deeply, truly, he was. It was a shock and an honest blessing to realize somebody was out of his fucking reach, good god. That was so good to know. Outside, he would have feared that. Here, he could let himself experience the sensation of graciousness. There was someone he couldn't make into the worst version of themselves.
The kind offering of the handkerchief was another thing entirely. He stared, surprised, for a half second, and then he took it delicately in clawed fingers. "Thank you," he murmured, still reeling from the recoil on that sharp burst of activity, and he wiped at his eyes. The handkerchief came away dirty with soot, and he looked guiltily at the gray smears on the fabric. He ruined things, generally. He besmirched them, right down to pretty little scraps of white linen. Nothing ever really came away untouched.
He looked up at the film star, uncertain, his fingers halfway to handing it back, halfway to his chest, hovering. "You're sweet for a movie star," he said, with a small, watery smile. He must be a movie star, mustn't he? He flickered like film, and had the poise of the silver screen.