WHO: Eames and Sirius Black, added Ariadne! WHAT: Vast amounts of "WTF"-ery WHEN: Sunday morning WHERE: That bloody library and then home sweet home for Eames. RATING: It's Eames and Sirius. Swearing, inappropriate un-PC comments, possibly rude gestures? What's 12 in american film ratings? STATUS: In progress
His head was killing him. His hand wasn't too far behind, and really, what the fuck was up with that? He hadn't shot himself in the hand, he'd have remembered. But yes, his headache was awful and so he wasn't really aware of very much until he was stumbling out onto the steps of that fucking library yet again. He looked around in case there were still some zombies poised and ready to have him for dinner, but he just saw other people standing on the steps looking confused. He automatically reached in his pocket for his totem once he saw he was relatively safe and brought it out into the light to check it. Reality. Huh.
His Bensons and lighter were in his jacket, so it was no time at all until he was filling his lungs with lovely nicotine and tars and fuck alone knew what else was in the damn things, but that wasn't important. He needed to get back to Arthur, he needed to get home but he'd be next to useless if he didn't get a smoke first. Cigarettes cured many things, he'd discovered, such as shitty mornings, bad tempers, hunger pangs and fidgeting fingers, but they weren't touching his headache. Bastard things. Still, he had lodged a bullet in his brain, so he supposed it couldn't really be helped. Arthur would help. Arthur and a huge mug of tea.
He flexed his sore hand as best he could, then looked around properly at everyone else, taking in details that he'd skipped on first glance. They all looked vaguely familiar, which was to be expected since they'd all been using the network, and then he saw someone he knew. "Sirius. Thank fuck for that," he said to himself, and then walked over to where the younger man was using his PDA. "Good to see you, mate. Smoke?"