[For those blessed few moments that there's anything in that glass, Eames isn't aware of anything except how it makes him feel so close to being right that having this taste is almost worse than having nothing at all. The way it feels like sparks firing along his synapses, like everything's almost running at full speed.]
[It's not enough. He uses his tongue and fingers to get everything out of the glass that he can, and it's not enough. Dimly, some part of him is aware that if he can push through this need he'll realise how fucking good he feels right now, but a much louder, instinct-driven part of him wants to drink and never stop as if that'll finally sate that hunger. He looks at Arthur, remembering the other glass, and for a flicker of a moment he honestly looks ready to attack him for the glass in his hand.]
[If it wasn't Arthur he probably would.]
[That flicker of violence passes though, and Eames makes some attempt to occupy his senses by wiping at the corner of his mouth with his thumb and licking the blood off.]
no subject
[It's not enough. He uses his tongue and fingers to get everything out of the glass that he can, and it's not enough. Dimly, some part of him is aware that if he can push through this need he'll realise how fucking good he feels right now, but a much louder, instinct-driven part of him wants to drink and never stop as if that'll finally sate that hunger. He looks at Arthur, remembering the other glass, and for a flicker of a moment he honestly looks ready to attack him for the glass in his hand.]
[If it wasn't Arthur he probably would.]
[That flicker of violence passes though, and Eames makes some attempt to occupy his senses by wiping at the corner of his mouth with his thumb and licking the blood off.]