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To prove I'm not just faffing about with the Dannyfic about which I've been moaning for several weeks, here is a bit I scrapped because it was leading the story down an unnecessary tangent about how Louie taught Danny to smoke.
Danny smiled bitterly at that and took another drag from his cigarette. It was, he noted with dull irony, a Marlboro, the same brand Sonny had been puffing the day they had first met. The same brand, now that he thought about it, that Lou Diamond Philips had probably been smoking the night he had uttered his strange prophecy and carried an unsuspecting Snow White into the night.
Mark all your special moments with Marlboro, he thought, and laughed as the smoke filled his lungs. He snorted and coughed against the simmering burn in his lungs. “Shit.”
He had quit smoking in his second year on the beat, eager for any edge over the scumbags and skels he was sworn to catch. He’d heard the horror stories about what happened to out-of-shape cops, and he hadn’t wanted to wind up sucking wind with his shaking hands clamped to his rubbery knees while tears streamed from his eyes and some hotshot punk laughed his ass off as he sprinted to freedom. His name had been black mark enough without adding the label of hairbag pussy. So, he’d dropped the habit cold and joined a gym to help himself suffer through the worst of the withdrawal symptoms. After a month of tasting burnt tires and tinfoil on his tongue no matter what he ate, the worst was over, and he’d patted himself on the back for his dedication to the job.
He’d resumed the habit after the Minhas shooting, smoked away the hours and relived an endless loop of could haves, would haves, and should haves in a haze of lazy, beckoning smoke. The blue pall had made it easier, blunted the sharp edges of Mac’s disapproving face and dulled the bright, constant worry in Flack’s eyes. Sometimes, Flack had joined him even though he’d quit, too, had huddled shoulder to shoulder with him as they passed a butt back and forth. Flack had mostly dropped the habit once the dust had begun to settle, though he still sneaked one on the courts now and then.
Danny had never let it go, though. He didn’t see the point of worrying about a slow death by cancer and carcinomas when he was more likely going to die by a bullet or the sweet, sharp kiss of a blade. Or maybe a heart attack from the constant strain of living with only one cold certainty: that sooner or later, the tightrope you were walking on was going to snap and furl without warning and send you screaming into the abyss. The ranks of the thin, blue line were no country for old men. He woke every morning with the gritty taste of death and guilt in the back of his throat; he deserved a cigarette once in a while.
So, he smoked. Not every day, and not even every week. His last cigarette before this one had been three weeks ago, on the roof of his building. He only smoked when he needed the heady equilibrium of nicotine, when everything had gone to shit and the only light in the world was the tiny, wavering glow at the end of his nose.
Now I'm going to try to steer a frantic, giddy Dannybun over the final hurdle.
Danny smiled bitterly at that and took another drag from his cigarette. It was, he noted with dull irony, a Marlboro, the same brand Sonny had been puffing the day they had first met. The same brand, now that he thought about it, that Lou Diamond Philips had probably been smoking the night he had uttered his strange prophecy and carried an unsuspecting Snow White into the night.
Mark all your special moments with Marlboro, he thought, and laughed as the smoke filled his lungs. He snorted and coughed against the simmering burn in his lungs. “Shit.”
He had quit smoking in his second year on the beat, eager for any edge over the scumbags and skels he was sworn to catch. He’d heard the horror stories about what happened to out-of-shape cops, and he hadn’t wanted to wind up sucking wind with his shaking hands clamped to his rubbery knees while tears streamed from his eyes and some hotshot punk laughed his ass off as he sprinted to freedom. His name had been black mark enough without adding the label of hairbag pussy. So, he’d dropped the habit cold and joined a gym to help himself suffer through the worst of the withdrawal symptoms. After a month of tasting burnt tires and tinfoil on his tongue no matter what he ate, the worst was over, and he’d patted himself on the back for his dedication to the job.
He’d resumed the habit after the Minhas shooting, smoked away the hours and relived an endless loop of could haves, would haves, and should haves in a haze of lazy, beckoning smoke. The blue pall had made it easier, blunted the sharp edges of Mac’s disapproving face and dulled the bright, constant worry in Flack’s eyes. Sometimes, Flack had joined him even though he’d quit, too, had huddled shoulder to shoulder with him as they passed a butt back and forth. Flack had mostly dropped the habit once the dust had begun to settle, though he still sneaked one on the courts now and then.
Danny had never let it go, though. He didn’t see the point of worrying about a slow death by cancer and carcinomas when he was more likely going to die by a bullet or the sweet, sharp kiss of a blade. Or maybe a heart attack from the constant strain of living with only one cold certainty: that sooner or later, the tightrope you were walking on was going to snap and furl without warning and send you screaming into the abyss. The ranks of the thin, blue line were no country for old men. He woke every morning with the gritty taste of death and guilt in the back of his throat; he deserved a cigarette once in a while.
So, he smoked. Not every day, and not even every week. His last cigarette before this one had been three weeks ago, on the roof of his building. He only smoked when he needed the heady equilibrium of nicotine, when everything had gone to shit and the only light in the world was the tiny, wavering glow at the end of his nose.
Now I'm going to try to steer a frantic, giddy Dannybun over the final hurdle.
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