There was the lip tell. Fidgety and doing the concerning tell of his. Thrilling. Ariadne didn't know what it was about, exactly, but she sat down on the edge of her bed when Eames went out to get himself tea. She sat there while he was gone, fiddling with a random horsehair paintbrush. She chipped at a touch of paint on the handle, trying to clean it off, then just ran the dry bristles back and forth on the palm of her hand. A bit of time for quiet reflection was welcome, despite the fact she had done far too much of that lately as a whole.
When Eames returned, she glanced up at him. "Eames, can I ask you a question?"
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