[ there's a purpose to her calling him out here — several, in fact — but the most immediate and selfish is the excuse to see him again, to trace the gaunt lines on his face and see how much or how little sleep has helped them. it's only been a week since she saw him stumble into that infirmary bed, but a week is long enough to do some damage if you were really dedicated. she doesn't ask him, because she doesn't think he'd answer or appreciate it, but marta's never been very good at hiding the curious concern on her face anyway. ]

I'm not, not really.

[ she shifts on the boulder she's sitting on to pat the space beside her, just before fishing out another corona from the tin. out of her pocket comes a clipper that she uses with a lot more ease than someone who isn't really a smoker, but luckily she explains: ]

Sometimes I just like the smell of them. My father was a smoker. My mother's siblings too. You grow up around it enough, and you start to crave it a different way.

[ nostalgia can be its own form of addiction, but her time with harlan had kept the urge at bay. he never liked the smell of them, was always disgusted by walt's habit, so marta learned to stop seeking out the familiarity of their smell.

but then christmas on the station comes, and her stocking has the tin and the clipper, and. well. there's something about the holidays that always tries to drag you back, doesn't it?

she stuffs the cigar into the corner of her mouth and turns her attention to the pack of skewers instead, drawing out a good handful to start snapping them into various sizes. ]