B.P.R.D. headquarters

[walking_napalm]

Liz doesn't smoke very often. She used to go through a whole lot of cigarettes (fireproof and with lungs that seem to be pretty inured to smoke -- why not?), but she fell out of the habit while at Bellamie, and never went back to her old dizzying heights of smoke and chemical inhalation afterward.

Once in a while, though, she'll find an old pack or feel the itch. Tonight, it was the latter, and the roof's as good a place as any to do some thinking. Her back resting against concrete and her knees drawn up, she has a lit cigarette balanced loosely between her pointer and middle fingers, her forearm resting on her knees. It's a nice night; the stars aren't all that visible (they never are, in Trenton), but Liz has a sweater and half a pack of cigarettes. She's comfortable.

Comments

[walking_napalm]

"Maybe," Liz says, and it's the kind of 'maybe' that means 'you're so on.'

She leans up a couple of inches and kisses him softly, sliding her hand from his jaw to his cheek. She keeps her hand where it is even after she leans back just enough to say, "Maybe I'll pick up some tips in Vegas."

[bprd_agent_red]

He returns the kiss and brushes his temple against hers when she breaks it.

"Maybe I'll do some marathon watchin' of high stakes poker."

[walking_napalm]

"Maybe," Liz says, her smile audible, "we could go inside now."

[bprd_agent_red]

"Yeah," He nods barely, tightening his arm around her briefly then loosens his hold and takes her hand. "Let's do that."