Work Text:
He watches the smoke dance in the air. He remembered how he would watch it during The Incident. His smoke and the breath it was carried upon were the only parts of him unrestrained.
The rush of nicotine was the only relief and entertainment he got. Besides Tony. But that was different.
He still smokes sometimes. It's a nasty little habit he picked up from The Incident, just like the night terrors and the drinking. His wife hates all three.
He drinks to forget. But he smokes to remember. He usually drinks.
Smoking was a treat. An indulgence.
He remembers the apartment. The bathtub. The ties that bind. Tony's body close to his. The cable cutting into his neck.
His muscle memory has changed. It used to urge him to straighten up. He'd be falling asleep and the phantom strike of his father's belt stinging on his lower back would whip him back into shape.
Now, when his mind wanders and his body takes over, the instinct is to hunch—the nonexistent wire still pulling him forward.
His leash. When it pulled, he followed. Even years later. On Tuesday February 8, 1977, his faith had been shaken and, despite the soundbites he gave to the press, it never recovered. He was never quite convinced he wouldn't wake up in that bathtub again. And when pulling away meant death, you followed.
He'd been classically conditioned. Pavlov's bitch.
He had never smoked before it happened. He was raised right after all, a God fearing man who did not pollute his body with such follies. Now… it all didn't seem to matter all that much.
He knows this is bad for him. The empty bottles and chain-smoked cigarette butts. The stench on the walls and on his breath. The wanting.
This is probably taking years off his life. But, shit—he's probably not missing out on that much.