It wasn't like him and he knew it. Making vague attempts at convincing himself he was past the point of caring.
He leaned against the cold, brick wall outside the station, hidden nice and safely out of any potential view of his colleagues. He briefly rummaged around in the pocket of his ever-present leather jacket and pulled out a lighter. He lit the cigarette resting between his lips and stuffed the lighter back in his pocket. Upon arrival in 1973 it had seemed he was the only non-smoker in the greater area of Manchester. He could make all the excuses in the world – second hand smoke and whatnot – but it all came down to old fashioned (the irony.) stress.
Sam Tyler was bloody sick of the Seventies; and he wanted to know if smoking really did turn out as relaxing as people made it out to be. Smoke passed his lips and he smiled to himself slightly – regardless of the rather unconventional situation, the reason was the oldest in the book. He more than understood the health risks and sheer hypocrisy of it. The last time he'd had a fag was with his mates back in school. Years and dates and how they all made so little sense now whirred around his mind. With a final drag of his cigarette he pushed the thoughts out of his head.
He headed back up to the entrance of the station, half-wondering what conclusions the others might have of his increasingly long 'bathroom breaks'.
A/N: Not even quite sure what I think of it myself. Popped up in my head on a sleepless night around 4 am, and figured I might as well post it. Reviews appreciated, and if not, I still hope you enjoyed it :).