Eames/Mars: the bar
He didn't need to wonder about her. She wasn't a Faberge egg, this cherry-blossom snippet of a girl. She was fruit, flushed-full on the vine and easily identified for what it was, only half-bloomed. He matched this piece with the puzzle pieces he'd had, over so many weeks and months and came up, with a faint smoke-trail from a train compartment room, with a sum that seemed entirely sensible for the whole.
"Very fitting," he congratulated her on her choice of hard liqueur, with a golden, warm note of something like mirth shared tucked into the back of the syllables. "It matches," which was the point, wasn't it, darling? Finding a common thread, even if you felt deeply out of place, between what you needed to face down and where you'd come from. It was admirable, the attempt.
He waited. He took another glass into his hand and he didn't need to pay the bartender, who already had his card on tab. He wetted his tongue with the liquid within the glass and he leaned his cheek on his palm, a feminine gesture made all the more masculine for it being Eames doing it, and looked at her. "When you're ready, darling."