Bowman's head jerked up from his hand before he was really, properly, fully awake; as a result, his neck wasn't prepared to hold it up, and he nearly faceplanted onto the beer-sticky table. The cigarette between his fingers had burned down to the filter and gone out; flicking it away, he directed a tipsy and unfocused glare up at the large blob with suspiciously blue hair looming at the edge of the booth.

Dias, not to be put off by anything so minimal, slid into the booth opposite Bowman. "Cigarette. Give me one."

Bowman snorted, fishing out another cigarette from his pocket and sticking it between his lips. "Why should I?"

"Because I asked."

"You could say please."

"I could also say or else."

Eyeing Dias sourly, Bowman slid the dented hard pack out of his breast pocket and held it out. "Fine, tough guy. Lighter's in there." Dias took the pack and shook out a cigarette, and even mildly buzzed Bowman couldn't help but notice that Dias' hands weren't quite steady. "Wait," Bowman added as the light dawned. "You smoke?"

"No." Dias put his cigarette in his mouth and had a brief wrestling match with the lighter. The lighter seemed determined to thwart him; after the third unsuccessful click, Dias started to growl, just a low bitter rumble in the back of his throat.

Bowman couldn't decide whether to be amused or irritated. Or frightened, a little of that wouldn't go amiss, what with sitting across the table from a growling Dias; finally, realizing that he wasn't going to be able to light his own cigarette until Dias lit his, Bowman said, "Here. Gimme. I'll do it."

"I can--" Dias started to insist, then with a little snarl half-threw the lighter at Bowman's head. 

Bowman caught it reflexively. "Hey! What crawled up your ass and died? Not that you're not always an asshole, of course, but..."

Dias gritted his teeth (denting the filter of his cigarette severely) and clenched his fists, and somewhere deep in the back of Bowman's fuzzy mind the 'run, stupid' alarm went off. But "...sorry." leaked out through those gritted teeth, and the fists still shook a bit, and then Dias had the--well, the courtesy, Bowman supposed--to growl "...thanks." 

Bowman relaxed. Slightly. A little of that old charming touch coaxed the lighter to flame, and after lighting his own cigarette Bowman held it out. Dias blinked at the flame for a moment, then cupped both hands around Bowman's and clumsily lit his own cigarette.

He didn't cough at the first lungful, either, which was disappointing, because Bowman had been looking forward to trying not to laugh in his face.

"So, what brings you out to chap my ass at--" Bowman checked the clock above the bar. "--four a.m.? Shit, it's four a.m.?"

"It isn't any of your business."

"Shit. Be that way."

"... dick."

"Asshole."