[ oh, okay, okay. okay, good. this is working. the hunger in logan's eyes, the salivation. he's a dog and these smooth, mellow cigars are prime cut steaks. stiles' heart does a little jump when he realizes he might actually be able to weasel some information out of logan here, but the guilt is almost crushing enough that he kind of wants to just give him the cigars without prying into his life too much. almost. ]

I just want to know what you're dealing with. I found out a few things about how death works here, and I guess I'm just...

[ ... he gestures with his hands, trying to find the words. he guesses he's just hoping things will be advanced enough here for logan to get help? he's hoping there's something here he can do? he's hoping he isn't actually making friends with a dying guy? stiles, frustrated, drops his hands, slapping them against his thighs. ]

Okay, okay, okay, there might be some light nagging if we go down this road, maybe a generous sprinkling of concern over this cake baked with worry, but you're three times the size of me and probably really comfortable with the idea of punching me in the head. So. It's not like I'm gonna be able to boss you around here, right?