[Darlington's as certain as he can be that he's never smoked, or at least as certain as he is about anything else. Still, as the eyes and their accompanying sense of...accusation, he thinks, drive him out into the cool darkness of the night, his fingers half-itch for a cigarette, or a drink, something to distract even if it won't provide anything in the way of answers.
He needs the answers more, but he'll take what he can get.
Hearing the question, he laughs, short and soft, a scoff of a noise as he looks over at the man slumped against the wall.]
I see them too. How many different ones has it been for you?
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He needs the answers more, but he'll take what he can get.
Hearing the question, he laughs, short and soft, a scoff of a noise as he looks over at the man slumped against the wall.]
I see them too. How many different ones has it been for you?