Disclaimer: Not mine, not making any money, just borrowing for a bit…

A/N: First CI fic, hope you like. It is an angsty A/B through the eyes of an outsider.

He's smoking like a pro, hauling the nicotine and tar and empty comfort hard into his lungs, and holding it for a long second, eyes closed. Then he opens his eyes, and lets it all go in a thin white cloud. He waits a moment, studying the ash collecting at the end of the cigarette. An expert flick of his left wrist sends a shower of brilliant sparks through the air. Even from where I sit at the far end of the bar I can see them reflected in those deep brown eyes, red sparks glistening like tears, then falling, cold and gray, into the ashtray.

Then he raises the cigarette back to his lips in a gentle kiss, and starts over again.

I can count four cigarette butts in the ashtray in front of him. The look on the bartender's face is uncertain as he obeys the slight movement of the hand not clenching ashes and pain and refills the short glass. I don't even have to read the label to recognize the dark amber tumbling into that glass. He's drinking whiskey, straight up, and I'd guess he's been doing so for a while, the way the bartender bites his lip. But his hands are steady as he neglects his cigarette to toss back half the glass in one gulp. Then he returns with another soft, desperate kiss, like a repentant lover.

"Somebody's had a shitty day."

I pull my eyes away briefly to glance to my left. Charisma smirks with her deep red lips, and lifts a single, perfectly plucked eyebrow. She had a real name once, a billion years ago, probably something simple and sweet, like Molly, or Lucy, or Anne. Whatever it was, none of the girls know it. I don't think even she remembers. She learned fast from the streets, and learned what Charisma could get that little Molly-Lucy-Anne-whoever could not. If she painted her face and made up her hair and named the price and smiled when the men shoved it in her, then she could be the one in control. The other girls say she started out young, maybe sixteen, maybe twelve. Brandy says Charisma came out of her mother and asked the doctor if he wanted a good time.

Maybe that's not the greatest life to have led, but it definitely gives Charisma the edge in this world of smoky bars, cheap booze, and men. Always, always, there are the men. And right now, Charisma is telling me that the professional smoker is going to be a sure thing.

I find myself shaking my head.

"Two girls already tried," I remind her, swirling my too sweet drink around its glass. I hate mixed drinks, too sugary, trying to hide the delicious bite of real alcohol, but men don't want a woman who chugs a beer or downs scotch like they do. I have no idea what is so sexy about a woman sipping from a tall, flashy glass. Perhaps they like to pretend we're actually ladies, to ease their precious little egos.

Charisma laughs at me. "He's been looking at you all night, Vivienne. Trust me."

Again, I glance down the bar. He hasn't changed position, staring into the depths of his glass and sighing out smoke. He wears jeans and a black sweatshirt, sleeves pushed up. Nice arms. A black leather jacket is tossed over the short back of his stool. It was nice once, but now looks worn, tired. His hair was probably dark a few years ago, but gray is winning a battle he seems to have already given up on. He needs a shave, but then, every other man in this place could use a shower, so that's not so bad. He's big, which scares me a little, because I'm not big at all. He could probably pick me up with one hand, throw me over his shoulder, and carry me out, caveman style, without dropping his cigarette.

"Charisma—"

"You wanna eat?" she mutters, her voice firm, but not unkind. "You wanna keep your place? You like having heat?"

I nod slowly. "Yeah."

"Then get your cute little ass over there, and do your thing. Work it while you got it, baby," she whispers, running her scarlet-tipped finger down that long scar over her eye and her cheek. "Work it while you got it."

So I slide off my stool, and slip my arms into the sleeves of my denim jacket. Charisma taught me a few days ago to leave it dangling off my elbows, and never over my shoulders. It makes a girl look vulnerable, like she needs a big strong man to help her into the jacket, and in the world in general.

So I leave it dangling and stroll, as casually as a girl can stroll in six inch heels, down the bar to this big, strong man.