Re: The Companion/The Regret-me-not
Had she asked, he would have informed her that he was currently not inebriated and not in that way of drunken belligerents everywhere that insisted they were not when they were a fifth in and about to start on their second. No, he hadn't had a sip all day and while it was quite cold outside, there was no pulling his shirt closer, or the mad hop of frozen toes as if that would somehow help. It never did and he liked those little pains, cold nipping, and then biting, and then chewing as if he was being devoured.
Mike almost corrected her. He wasn't kind; he was never kind. Kindness was a cloak used to pacify and he was not a pacifist. "You're welcome," he said instead, flicking the cap off and lighting it for her, one hand cupping around the flame so it would catch on her cheroot. He kept it there until it glowed red, but it didn't smell like it had been packed with anything -- interesting and he flicked it close with a snap of his wrist.
"You're not cold out here?" He asked, curious rather than eager to offer an arm to escort her back inside, away from the wind and the cold, as if women did not have to ever deal with such things. "Or do you not care?" His voice carried around the wind, but he did not yell, he did not have to, his was the low thrum of a Hemi.