Work Text:
The humid Texas air hangs thick around them as Boomhauer leans against the splintering porch railing, watching Dale spit another brown streak into the empty Mountain Dew bottle. The smell of wintergreen and stale spit clings to Dale’s beard, and Boomhauer wrinkles his nose, his drawl sharper than usual.
"Dang ol’… whew, that's nastier 'anna possum armpit, I tell you what. Ain't no kinda way 'round it, man. Just dang ol' rank.."
Dale scowls, defensive, but Boomhauer’s already snatching the soggy wad from his fingers with a napkin, folding it tight. He jams it into the end of yesterday’s *Arlen Bystander*, rolled up like a kid’s spyglass.
"Here, dang ol’, try this," he says, shoving it toward Dale’s face. "Breathe deep, like them hippies with their… their dang incense."
Dale hesitates, but Boomhauer’s grin is wicked under the flickering porch light. He inhales—immediately gags, coughing like a cat with a hairball. "Goddammit, Boomhauer—!"
Then the lighter clicks. Boomhauer thumbs the flame alive, holding it just beneath the newspaper’s edge. "Just a lil’ spark, baby," he murmurs.
The paper blackens, curls. Smoke rises—cleaner, sweeter, carrying the ghost of tobacco without the spit. Dale’s eyes widen. He takes a cautious drag.
"Well, I’ll be… Boomhauer, you’re a genius, darlin’." The ember glows between them, a tiny sun in the gathering dark.