Re: [Woods: Atticus & Eames]
Eames's parents were a thick, black marker line in a file somewhere nicely vault-like. The least said about them the better, really. He hadn't acquired a taste for linen from either one, it had to be said, and there were few habits Eames had, few quirks of character that he hadn't studied, groomed or inculated like an art forger layering over cracks in the patina.
"It comes in handy if you have to run," Eames said, vaguely, which no doubt left the listener with an impression of flung-wide windows, someone scrambling down the side of a house or down a street bollocks-naked. It was a memory Eames had. One or two, anyway. But Atticus mused away, taking throwaway remarks and turning them into philosophy, and Eames arched an eyebrow. "I'm not very good at owning things. Or being owned. I find people don't stay put if you try to put them places. Meant to be sleeping with someone else, I rather thought that was the notion of whoever did the walking in, or the finding out."
Janus being Janus was simply the rule. It had to be taken on the basis of what it was. "Oh, Steve." Eames had peripheral contact with Steve. "I didn't know Steve. Wanted to," but Eames rather thought someone who'd been an image for longer than Eames had been alive, they'd know how to keep themselves unknown. Quizzically, honestly: "Why would it?" Eames looked baffled. "I did say, darling, it's not like that. Mumbai, though. It absolutely fucks with any sense you have of how a city ought to be, turns it into something different." He had a warm, rough sound in his voice: Eames had liked Mumbai, and he sounded fond. "Why can't you?"