Anyone would agree that smoking on the staircase just around the corner from the Prefectorial Boardroom right before they adjourn their general meeting is an act that can only be described as downright suicidal.

Except nobody in the second year, or any other year for that matter, would have pegged Bigby Wolf as suicidal.

Bigby inhales. Around the corner the door bursts open, footsteps on the carpeted corridor. Junior prefects exit first. Bigby blows a stream of smoke at the marble banister, taps off the ash.

The first to come around the corner are Blue and Simon Tam – and thank goodness it’s Blue, who says something to Simon and drags him past the staircase, glancing over his shoulder as he does so to roll his eyes at Bigby, who responds with a smirk.

Next up: Mal Reynolds, who merely stalks past, and then Alice, who raises an eyebrow but lets it go, and then the trio – Inara in fervent discussion with Carolina and there.

She stops, as do they, at the sight of the column of smoke making its lazy way to the lofty ceiling of the Front Hall. Carolina giggles; Inara smiles, amused – but they both pull back even as Snow frowns at them.

Snow sets her lips in a hard line and makes her way down the stairs towards him. Bigby studies the dwindling stub between his fingers.

“You do know,” Snow addresses him severely, “that you are three bookings away from a detention?”

“Yeah,” affirms Bigby, non-committal. Snow gives him an exasperated look.

“Look,” she continues, “if you want to kill your lungs it’s your own problem, no-one gives a damn. But you have to stop being so obvious about it.”

Bigby looks up, looks her in the eye. Snow shifts, uncomfortable.

“Don’t smirk,” she adds, warningly.

Bigby doesn’t shift his gaze. “I’m not.”

Snow sighs, takes out her notebook. “I hate having to do this,” she tells him as she writes down his name, his offense. “You could just make it easier for both of us.”

Bigby considers this. “Well, you didn’t have to be the one to come down.”

“Don’t push me, Wolf.” Snow’s eyes flash; she shoves the pen and book at him. “Sign here.”

Their hands brush as he takes the pen, brush again when he hands the book back – something ignites, a spark to dry kindling, and she definitely noticed too because she steps back swiftly, hands retracting to her sides.

“No mistletoe?” she remarks with dry humour. “I’m surprised.”

“Nope.” Finally, he allows the grin to come through. “You’re smarter than that.”

Snow looks like she wants to retort to that, but she doesn’t rise to the bait. “You put that out now,” is all she throws at him, and then she whirls around and heads back up the steps to her prefect friends.

Bigby stands there till they’re long gone, cigarette end still crumbling between his fingertips. Then he tosses it over the banister and descends the steps.