Re: [In-person: Damian/Misha]
Misha, he wasn't real sure how long he was going to let this go on. It helped some that he had control over the situation. He could stop it whenever he was inclined, and he could drag Damian away whenever he was inclined, and he could make it all go away with his mouth and his hands, and this was what he clung to just now. Right now, for now, he stood there, silent, like some damn fool poking himself with a needle in a spot that was already sore.
In the line, The hunter smoked. He didn't notice Damian 'til Damian spoke, and then he turned his attention full on the dark boy standing there. He looked over Damian's head, like he was trying to suss out where he'd come from, and then he looked back on down at the boy. He considered some, a moment, the same pale eyes intelligent as they regarded Damian. He didn't seem kind, and there wasn't no soft to this version of the angel. He pulled the pack of unflitered smokes from his pocket, and he started tipping the pack out to Damian. "I reckon I can spare one, if you can help me in return," he said, same accent, same voice, just all hardened some by a real different life. The hand that held out the smoke was gun calloused, the fingernails dirty 'neath. This close, he smelled of sweat and cheap soap, of smoke and real bad booze, of gasoline and hard living.