[It takes every ounce of self-control Eames has not to try and rush for that tray the second the door opens and the smell of fresh blood floods in. It's almost unreal, something about it that reminds him of steam on a fresh coffee, and fills him some need to drink it before it dissipates. Before it dies. He lowers his head, looking at Arthur's hand on his chest in some attempt to hide just how hard he's clenching his jaw and swallowing a noise in the back of his throat that might be a growl.]
[When Arthur had told him about this, what Eames had imagined was the two of them enjoying a glass of blood together, something sophisticated and refined. Maybe they'd flirt a little, go home and fuck. Or just make use of the room if Arthur was amenable. What actually happens is nothing like that, and Eames isn't even fully aware of his actions. All he knows is one second he was on the couch, and then he has one of those glasses clutched in both hands, standing next to the table as he gulps it down as if he's been suffering a drought and this is the first glimpse of water he's seen in days.]
no subject
[When Arthur had told him about this, what Eames had imagined was the two of them enjoying a glass of blood together, something sophisticated and refined. Maybe they'd flirt a little, go home and fuck. Or just make use of the room if Arthur was amenable. What actually happens is nothing like that, and Eames isn't even fully aware of his actions. All he knows is one second he was on the couch, and then he has one of those glasses clutched in both hands, standing next to the table as he gulps it down as if he's been suffering a drought and this is the first glimpse of water he's seen in days.]