Re: Eames & Cisco: the Capital
It was trite, but Cisco felt you could learn a lot about a person from their choice in coffee. Tea instead? Milk and tea? Some foamed concoction no one had heard of? A hard three shots and ten sugars? All of that said something about a man, and as the black coffee (no frills, but you still had to deal with the unnecessarily floral mugs) was delivered, he wondered what that said about Eames. He looked at him and canted his head, and then he got there: military. It said military. There was the accent, and some of the odd differences of body and the way he held himself, but the black coffee and the big shoulders held just that way suggested a military career to Cisco, who remembered seeing it on his stepfather for much of his childhood. It made him think.
Suddenly, Cisco laughed. "You are my Father Christmas, Eames." He laughed again, shaking his head, and then running his hand through his hair to put it back into place, still chuckling. The macchiato lingered on his lips as he held elbow in place for the duration of the amusement, so it didn't end up spit up on someone.
Cisco slid a sidelong look at Eames. "That sounds like a complicated way to say you hate your boss but you can't quit." He sipped again, crossing his legs at the knee and leaning back in his chair. It was deliberate, this relaxation, because he did not want to react to Eames' dark intensity of the moment. Cisco's eyes were golden in the gleam of the hanging light as he flicked a glance over Eames' shoulder in the direction they had come, through wall and building for there was nothing to see, but the direction of his thoughts was clear. He looked back into the blue eyes. "You don't need to convince me. I believe you."