Eames doesn't hug people. Eames accepts her mortal displays of affection begrudgingly. He doesn't offer them up.
She winces under his arms, shifting to get a better position to return his hug. "Hey, now," she says gently into him. "What's going on?" She almost wants to make a joke, ask if it's really him or if he's been replaced by some sort of something or other (but really she didn't have time to play the "one of us always lies, one of us always tells the truth" games nor did she remember the answer to that particular riddle), but this feels so different. And she wants to make it better.
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Eames doesn't hug people. Eames accepts her mortal displays of affection begrudgingly. He doesn't offer them up.
She winces under his arms, shifting to get a better position to return his hug. "Hey, now," she says gently into him. "What's going on?" She almost wants to make a joke, ask if it's really him or if he's been replaced by some sort of something or other (but really she didn't have time to play the "one of us always lies, one of us always tells the truth" games nor did she remember the answer to that particular riddle), but this feels so different. And she wants to make it better.