He is, for a moment, smoke. His breath, his hair, the fabric of him, that curious composition of gas and water and addiction. The taste of it is thick, a layer of him, bitter mortality and ceremoniously cremated tobacco. The smoke clears, misty blurred edges of him gone, and he's Theo again, beauty in the way he breaths out his soul in contraband. Piper hides from him, and watches him, concealed behind tinted glass, for she can't stand the reek of smoke. There's an irony to his bad habit; she has always considered him to be something of a pest, and now here he stands slouched with a cigarette in his mouth, as though to ward himself off, to smoke himself out of his den and into his death. Piper always smiles a little at irony.