Eames/Rey/Atticus/Manning: the B&B
Eames strolled in. He looked the epitome of a relaxed man who wasn't considering the ramifications of a dream within a dream, or even the high risk spying operation ongoing in the belly of a terrifically large and toothsome beast, darling. He even looked restrained, which had more to do with the weather than any crisis of confidence in his own sense of style and he walked through the door with an air of irrepressible confidence. He folded away sunglasses into the neck of his shirt, and the cool air of the interior hit him like a wall. He didn't have the slightest antenna for the notional wards on walls and windows, he was extremely, entirely mundane, except for dreaming.
And did he look at all worried about his darkest, deepest secrets on show? Not a whit. It helped that at least two of the three he didn't know, and could probably hunt down, if necessary. Atticus looked like yesterday's breakfast, darling, which was to say, dreadful. He looked like he'd been in a punch-up, and Eames recollected Janus's suggestion that Atticus was in, if not trouble, then mired in intrigue. He noted it, and his face flickered briefly, not disapproval exactly, but quiet interest and something lodged.