He's already leaning across the desk to accept the cigarette between two fingers, looking quite posh (in a depression chic sort of way) as he settles back into his seat. He turns the little cigarette this way and that for a second, places it between his lips.

"It's fine," he says tiredly, "I'm a spirit healer, I'll just," and he makes a fanciful, sparkly gesture with one hand--a universal gesture for magicking away one's problems, maybe--before conveniently conjuring a little flame from one fingertip to light the cigarette.

He holds it up to the end of the cigarette, lights it, takes a few puffs, and predictably proceeds to cough like he's never smoked a cigarette before in his life. Because he hasn't. "Thanks," he rasps anyway.