[It wasn't Eames's usual, darling. Nor was his usual the equally delightfully themed establishment on the other side of town. Less Cash, more tassels, but there was at least an understanding that wherever you were walking in, it wasn't neutral. The bartender was absolutely right, there wasn't a lot to do in Repose, and Eames - Eames wasn't sleeping terribly well lately. He didn't look it and he wasn't dressed in denim. He wore a peacock-blue shirt, open at the throat, under a lavender sweater rolled to the elbows over jeans. The jeans were impeccably cut, his shoes were the sort of comfortable that came with an outrageous price-tag, and he walked into the Cat, a theme bar in the midwest looking as if he had aimed for a Capital hotspot and swung left a bit.
It was a bit cack-handed, the play with illusion and he hadn't gone all the way through with it. Eames's eyes were blue, and they were tired and when he sat at the bar, it was with one leg swung over the stool and the other standing. The bartender was having a night, by the look of it. A celebration, and Eames looked at the bar and listened to Cash immortalize a cat, and he smiled reflexively when the bartender - Steve - turned in his direction.]