Eames had taken to spending a lot of time at the house Gatsby owned. Not only because it was a beautiful house and being there in the vastness made him feel less alone than in the confines of the apartment he had shared with Swoff, but also because there was a pool. And when he had been recuperating he had done a lot of swimming. It was a good way to get over the PTSD as well, the slow, even strokes and breathing, distracting. He had felt the stress in his legs already, the aching in his calves, the heat brought it on, and the mental strain. He needed to swim so that he didn't seize up. He didn't know who around here would happily push him around in a wheelchair.
He'd taken to hanging around at the pool to keep out of Gatsby's house (because sleeping on the floor felt invasive enough.) And today he was sitting by the pool in his vest and some shorts, despite his being aware of the unsightly mess of his lower legs.
Eames looked up when he heard the little footsteps, turning his head towards Eponine. He smiled. "Hello, beautiful," he said, pulling himself up to his feet and moving towards her, scooping her up into a hug. "Long time. Are you well?"