Re: Janus A/Eames - log
Eames knew nothing about salt circles, candles, bells and whistles and rituals, darling. He believed in what lay immediately in front of him and that which he could lay hands on directly. He was flexible but his flexibility began and ended when it was necessary, and he had nothing but the need for smoke trails and a dream to run on. He sat, his back very straight and exceptionally still with a precision and an awareness that belonged somewhere less lavish, as the cigarette smoke contrailed outward.
Ah, the woman. Eames had a weakness for blonds, his own was softer-chinned, soft in a way that inspired confidences rather than sharp beauty. He took in the meaty-raw eye-sockets with a steady equanimity and the upward pull of one eyebrow and watched the kaleidoscope of personas with the resting interest of the same leonine creature that looked for where the shadow-play stopped and the real creature began. He'd forgotten the young man with the steak, he'd been intent by that point in the dream.
When the soldier appeared, Eames' head rolled back on his neck, his chin upward to watch with more intent. He was sitting where the shadow fell thickest himself and it meant the shape of his observation was lost in nuance of its nature and the blanketed darkness in the room itself. He made his study silently and for himself, and he blinked deliberately in the direction of the warm-glow glaze with a slowness that did what little it could to disguise the sharp, shrewdness of his own blue eyes.
"I'm not a disappointment," Eames drawled with absolute certainty. The syllables belonged to clipped English, elided in another affectation of carelessness. He smiled, a flash of white teeth in a face that held motion well. "Or were you expecting the blonde? Sorry, darling. I can dream her for you if you're very good."