Re: [Woods: Atticus & Eames]
Eames was always comfortable around people, darling. Unless they had a gun pointed in his face and then the jury was usually out. (There was a notable exception that kept the rule from being a rule, but she'd been a delight when angry). Atticus was a philosopher, folded into the body of a twenty-something with odd neck tattoos and the truism of not being able to know someone on first blush Eames did appreciate. "I always thought thinking was just that," he said idly, the ticking over of mental processes behind the warm, amused humor on show.
Which Janus, indeed. Eames raised both eyebrows. "Both." Which was true in a way. There had been both, but it wasn't frequent, "Or a couple, anyway. I don't really know how many Januses there are," he'd seen smoke, once, but it was a dream and anyone could be anything. "An odd duck, that one." He sounded fond: Eames was, when it came down to it. Eames wasn't lazy about people, but he did see the value in letting other people play themselves out for reading.
The island, Eames had heard briefly of. The island, who wound time back, it seemed. "With a fondness of ink," he pointed out, lazily. It wasn't weighted with anticipation of an answer. It was a remark. "The old man. You make him sound like he isn't you." It had been what felt like a very long time ago. Repose did that. It blurred into one.