Re: [Woods: Atticus & Eames]
Eames laughed. The truth of puddles, and his smile carried through Atticus's explanation. There was the oddness of contractions in the pattern of the man's speech, the absence of them. It struck odd chords, somewhere Eames kept all the ways in which people made themselves distinct, and he cocked his head back to look at the man speculatively. "I'm not much of a thinker, but I suspect you knew that already, darling," he said, with the rough amusement of comfort in his own setting.
He glanced back, and now he matched the two composite parts together. Eames's eyes narrowed a fraction, the crease over his nose tightened. It was, after all, Repose. Eames had himself lost the reins on his own dreams, it wasn't impossible but it was deeply improbable, and for a man fond of dreaming entire fictions, Eames was a man for facts. "Janus. A bit of both really, when the mood strikes," he said idly, as he held out the beer.
"It was, but now I'm not sure," he said, finally, leaning back against the counter, his hips backed into solid substance. Eames put his back against walls when he didn't know what he was facing, this was no different. "Who are you, exactly, darling? Or should I ask, what?" It was a reasonable conclusion, and he'd ignored entirely the suggestion of books. Books didn't actually interest Eames, other than what they said about the reader.