Re: Janus A/Eames: the 'Stop
The paper bag was slightly damp. It had one of those cardboard boxes inside, that held a cup exactly, and Eames didn't give a tinker's fuck for whether the mocha was chocolate or coffee enough, he'd done delivery service. "Yes, I bet," he said, as to worse, given Janus had been dead before. He couldn't tell, simply from looking, whether Janus was as close to near-death as he thought he might be, at least as close to near-death as the body might have been if it weren't a demon in it.
He crouched, at the side of the cot. The heat was no more humid, no more heavy than others Eames had lived through even if his shirt was damp against his back now. He looked at the face, at the temples, and he looked along the length of limbs to determine injury. It was the quick, field-assessment that took in a lot in very little time, and he sat back on his heels.
"You can't make this go away," he guessed. It didn't sound like a guess, it sounded like certainty, but Eames often did when he didn't know. "Drink the bloody mocha, darling and tell me how long this will last."