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Private Rossi had taken only two drags from his fifth cigarette of the day when it was suddenly plucked straight from his mouth. His head snapped up from its bowed position to spot the culprit.
Of course it was Cooke. Who else would it be?
“Oi,” His voice briefly caught in his throat as Cooke immediately began smoking it himself. But only briefly. “Oi!”
“What?” Cooke grinned like the cheeky little bastard he was, but at least he had the tiniest sliver of decency to not blow smoke directly towards him. “Ain’t you had enough anyway?”
“You don’t even smoke, ya little goblin!” Rossi shoved Cooke’s helmet down further over his face, but he just couldn’t be fucked to snatch the cigarette back. It’d already been in Cooke’s mouth anyway—no point now.
Cooke snickered, sounding just like a little goblin, and blindly pushed Rossi back so he could fix his helmet. “What’s it look like I’m doing now, then?”
“Looks like you’re getting your grubby mitts on all my worldly possessions.” He shot back, already resigning himself to just lighting another cigarette… if he could fucking find them in his kit. Curious, Cooke tilted his head as he watched Rossi’s hands start to shake the longer that he rummaged through his bag. “Where the fuck are the rest of ‘em?”
“How am I supposed to know? I don’t smoke.” Saying this, Cooke took another drag from the stolen cigarette. He startled a bit when Rossi’s eyes turned hard.
“Cooke, if you’ve took my fuckin’ pack, the captain’ll be spraying your remains off the ground for weeks.” Cooke raised his hands in surrender.
“I said I don’t fuckin’ know where it is!” His pitch rose an octave. “What, d’ya really think I’d swipe a whole pack from you? What’d be the point in that?” Rossi could feel a little lump of panic rising in his throat. Looking guilty, Cooke glanced away for a moment before taking the cigarette out of his mouth and holding it towards him.
“You want it back?” At the downward curl that graced the corner of Rossi’s lips, Cooke slowly withdrew his arm. “Geez, alright.” He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like ‘pussy’ as he put it back between his teeth. “Check your pockets.”
Rossi grumbled under his breath and plunged through every. Single. Pocket. On his uniform. No cigarettes. Cooke whistled lowly.
“Woof.”
They lapsed into a tense silence as Rossi double—then triple—checked his bag. He sucked in a breath through his teeth and threw his bag down like it was a sack of rotten potatoes, frustrated beyond belief. Cooke looked down at his cigarette, loosely held between his fingers, and had an idea (which always spells something bad).
He cleared his throat obnoxiously, prompting Rossi to laboriously lift his head and look at him. “We can share.” Cooke’s smile was sly as he waggled the cigarette towards the older man.
“I’m not putting my mouth on that.” Rossi scrunched up his nose in disgust.
“You don’t have to.” The smile widened, screaming danger in bright red flashes. At the half-curious half-bewildered look that crossed Rossi’s face, Cooke jerked his head to the side, wordlessly telling him to move closer. He took a small step forward, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.
“I don’t like that look of yours.” Rossi said slowly. “It’s never good, that look.” Cooke’s smile somehow grew even more at the accusation.
“Who, me?” He batted his eyes in a crude imitation of innocence. “I’m a saint—come on, you can get closer than that.”
“Why the hell would I want to?” Rossi got closer anyway, against his better judgement. Their shoulders were touching now. What could Cooke possibly be planning? Rossi regretted ever engaging him in the first place.
“Open up.” Cooke inhaled deeply from the cigarette, but kept his mouth shut afterwards. In the split second that it took for Rossi to form the word “what”, intending to say something along the lines of “what the fuck are you talking about, you insane cretin”, Cooke grabbed him by the chin and tugged his face closer—so much closer. Jesus Christ, Rossi never considered ever getting this goddamn close to him. Not consciously, at least.
There was a moment there, maybe half a second, that Rossi completely forgot everything that happened just a few seconds ago. The moment passed though, when instead of kissing the younger man—which is what he was expecting to happen considering their lips were practically touching now, not hoping, expecting—he got a lungful of smoke exhaled directly into his mouth.
Shotgunned. That insufferable prick.
After the few seconds that it took for any information to be processed through his brain, Rossi tore himself free from the grasp on his chin and doubled over in a violent coughing fit, much to the amusement of Cooke. The bastard looked for all the world like he was the funniest creature to ever grace this Earth, if the way he tipped his head back and laughed uproariously was any indication.
“Brilliant!” Cooke wiped tears from his eyes, the hilarity of the situation apparently not lessening any. “You should’ve seen your face, Rossi!”
Rossi didn’t want to know how his face looked. He could guess on his own, based on the way his heart had stopped and how time seemed to slow down in that moment.
With one last rough cough, Rossi picked up his bag from the ground and tossed it into Cooke’s chest, almost knocking him off his feet. He really could have thrown it harder, he probably should have. Ignoring the affronted “oi!” that followed, Rossi turned on his heel and trudged off in any old direction. It didn’t matter, they were in the reserve trenches anyway. As long as Cooke wasn’t there.
He got another cigarette from Butler sometime later, one that had not been in a certain little goblin’s clutches, and finally soothed the tremor in his fingers. If Rossi ever found out who stole his pack and caused him all this goddamn trouble, he swore he’d be dishonorably discharged the moment he got his hands on ‘em.