The request shouldn't have been so poignant; the fact that Vrenille actually did it shouldn't be, either, both for its simplicity and for the fact it's Vrenille and yet he blinks a moment when he sees the packs. Two, even. He swallows subtly, and nods.

"Thank you," he offers, quiet, touched as he takes them. He brings them with him over to the couch so he can work on transferring them to his tin - where he's obviously been sitting either often or for a long time, judging by the state of the ashtray. This is where his lighter is, too, so he just stays there while Vrenille brings over, yes, whiskey. He nods again, but sets the glass down on the coffee table for now, focused more on taking long drag off the cigarette while he doesn't answer and doesn't answer and doesn't answer.

What is he feeling? "Not angry with Jesus, I guess," he finally settles on, sighing out smoke. "He was doing what he thought he had to do." It's not for him to say what someone else should and shouldn't do, not for him to decide what's a valid reason and what's not. "But - this keeps happening, and I keep saying I'm afraid of it happening, and I keep being promised it won't. And then it does. But I'm the one who doesn't understand how things are?"