Paul's lips take a long, final drag of his crumpled cigarette before letting paper and ash fall to snow & flatten under his boot. The cold, missed dearly, takes its place seeping back through his lips in lieu of the ember's death and burrows under the skin.

So begins the Dutch's walk to the hangar - he trudges along metal railing and iced pavement to his white and dull destination halfway cross-base, dragging cold feet against the floor with contempt. Throws in warm wishes and creative suggestions of conception towards the sign manufacturer that printed 'NO SMOKING' in thick Russian line under his breath.

Finally, reaching his destination slicked in cold and flush, a groan and crack of the neck persuades Paul to lean against the wall. He certainly hopes it makes him appear nonchalant with his floored brow and crossed arms. He's freezing his goddamn ass off.