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Nel & Eames: the strip club
Who: Eames and Nel L
Where: The strip-bar
Warnings: I'm going to say language from the out, but.
There were three bars in the town that you could drink in, and two out of three were pretentious. Eames didn't mind a bar full of tits, it was positively mild atmospherics, after Amsterdam. And Paris, actually if he thought about it. It was at least honest about the clientele it had and the clientele it wanted and all right, having no name deliberately probably fucked the mailman right off, but it was for all its faults, very clearly a bar. It was also extremely difficult to bug a bar like this one, which also commended it to Eames. He was a little twitchy-paranoid currently about the opportunities to be monitored but with the bass line blown out by the speakers, the churn of people through the bogs some of whom came out sniffing indiscreetly, and the people behind the counter, you could pick a spot back up from the stage where you could see all entry points with your back against solid wall.
Which is what Eames did. In vintage under a navy blazer over cream pants that were absurdly fitted for a man of his thickness of thigh, or at least, this side of Europe. He picked up a beer along the way, one that was American-branded and he sat at the end of the bar, with his hip against the length of wood and his heel clipping the stool and a peripheral awareness of the barman sliding around back there. The barman was a large lad, but he wasn't dangerous. Eames had watched him long enough. As he had anyone who looked vaguely military by bearing in a town with a camp on the outskirts.
Eames was watching the girls. Not the tits, although he did like breasts, the pneumatics of his dream-women would give that general impression. He was watching their facial expressions as they stood in the shadows, glittering with sweat and cheap body-shimmer and the way they looked at the clientele, at the stage, even the back-office. There was a range of expression he hadn't entirely finessed yet, pinned it down until he was certain he could replicate it. He was also intermittently watching the floor-show, it seemed polite. Eames was, if not immediately obvious, avoiding the world outside, darling and thinking too hard about it.
Where: The strip-bar
Warnings: I'm going to say language from the out, but.
There were three bars in the town that you could drink in, and two out of three were pretentious. Eames didn't mind a bar full of tits, it was positively mild atmospherics, after Amsterdam. And Paris, actually if he thought about it. It was at least honest about the clientele it had and the clientele it wanted and all right, having no name deliberately probably fucked the mailman right off, but it was for all its faults, very clearly a bar. It was also extremely difficult to bug a bar like this one, which also commended it to Eames. He was a little twitchy-paranoid currently about the opportunities to be monitored but with the bass line blown out by the speakers, the churn of people through the bogs some of whom came out sniffing indiscreetly, and the people behind the counter, you could pick a spot back up from the stage where you could see all entry points with your back against solid wall.
Which is what Eames did. In vintage under a navy blazer over cream pants that were absurdly fitted for a man of his thickness of thigh, or at least, this side of Europe. He picked up a beer along the way, one that was American-branded and he sat at the end of the bar, with his hip against the length of wood and his heel clipping the stool and a peripheral awareness of the barman sliding around back there. The barman was a large lad, but he wasn't dangerous. Eames had watched him long enough. As he had anyone who looked vaguely military by bearing in a town with a camp on the outskirts.
Eames was watching the girls. Not the tits, although he did like breasts, the pneumatics of his dream-women would give that general impression. He was watching their facial expressions as they stood in the shadows, glittering with sweat and cheap body-shimmer and the way they looked at the clientele, at the stage, even the back-office. There was a range of expression he hadn't entirely finessed yet, pinned it down until he was certain he could replicate it. He was also intermittently watching the floor-show, it seemed polite. Eames was, if not immediately obvious, avoiding the world outside, darling and thinking too hard about it.