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 She almost wants to make a joke, ask if it's really him or if he's been replaced by some sort of something or other (but really she didn't have time to play the "one of us always lies, one of us always tells the truth" games nor did she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.
"Can't I just be happy to see you?" Eames asks, intoning it as a joke. He pulls back a little, just enough to look down at her with an easy smile and brush some of her hair back.
It's just good to see her again, back at home and in one piece. There's nothing wrong with that.
This is so freaking weird. Normally, she'd be so happy with the kind affection from the man she'd come to view as a father. But this was uncanny.
"Of course you can." She returns to the flats of her feet. "It's just not like you to hug." There's a question there. "Not that I'm complaining." She loved a good hug.
The funny thing is, Eames has always been a physically affectionate person. Maybe after these last couple of years he just can't find the energy to hold that back like he used to.
That would be impossible to explain even if he felt like it.
Eames just smiles — an easy, casual smile — and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear before gesturing for her to follow him to the kitchen.
"Even I can admit a hug's nice," well-- "Sometimes."
He's touched her hair so many times, it's a little odd. Boxer's being weird, too, sniffing at her, not jumping and demanding pets. It's not just the smell of Bill and Bull's Eye, though.
"Sometimes?" She repeats, raising an eyebrow. "Well, I like it, if that helps."
She takes a seat at the breakfast nook. "Something wrong with my hair?" She touches a lock, teasing him.
He laughs softly, going to flick on the kettle and gather up the components for two cups of tea.
"It looks soft?" Eames offers as an answer. Definitely nothing to do with that vivid memory, holding a dying girl, gaunt and sick but unmistakably Nancy. Of cradling her in his arms, one hand stroking thin, matted hair and murmuring softly to comfort her in her final moments.
"Well, you've touched it, you tell me." She crosses her legs and props her elbow up on the table as she watches him.
She does touch her hair, though. Twists a lock around her finger and decides yes, good, her hair is indeed soft.
"Is Boxer okay?" She asks, at last, reaching down to pet the dog. "He's not usually this... subdued. Do I smell or something?" She makes like she's going to sniff her armpit. "He's never minded Bull's Eye before."
"He's just been a bit anxious recently," it shouldn't be that strange of an explanation, he thinks. She knows what Boxer was like when Eames first brought him home, a timid thing who'd hide behind Eames despite being big for even his breed. "Maybe he knows he's due for a check-up."
Oh Christ, he hasn't even thought about that. How's he going to explain away his dog aging two years to the vet? Has he actually aged even, or is he back where he was before... Everything.
He seems happy with the pets though, leaning into Nancy's touch. Certainly hasn't forgotten Nancy, everything is just different. He's adjusting.
"Poor boy." She gives him plenty of scritches and pets, as all good dogs deserve. And all dogs were good dogs, it was just a fact.
The atmosphere in the kitchen, in this entire day, is so weird. There's something hanging between them that she can't see, but she can feel it. She doesn't particularly care for it, either. Maybe Eames will clear it up once they have their tea.
Or not.
"So you heard about this new vampire that's moved into town?" She asks him. "She's Greek, by way of, of all places, Staten Island. I've heard rumors she's actually got a human familiar, somehow." It's a little unnerving, truthfully. Of course, Bill was, on paper, her familiar, too.
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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.
no subject
It's just good to see her again, back at home and in one piece. There's nothing wrong with that.
no subject
"Of course you can." She returns to the flats of her feet. "It's just not like you to hug." There's a question there. "Not that I'm complaining." She loved a good hug.
what if i replied to this five months later
That would be impossible to explain even if he felt like it.
Eames just smiles — an easy, casual smile — and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear before gesturing for her to follow him to the kitchen.
"Even I can admit a hug's nice," well-- "Sometimes."
I mean that would be fine
"Sometimes?" She repeats, raising an eyebrow. "Well, I like it, if that helps."
She takes a seat at the breakfast nook. "Something wrong with my hair?" She touches a lock, teasing him.
😘😘😘
"It looks soft?" Eames offers as an answer. Definitely nothing to do with that vivid memory, holding a dying girl, gaunt and sick but unmistakably Nancy. Of cradling her in his arms, one hand stroking thin, matted hair and murmuring softly to comfort her in her final moments.
He's just feeling nice today, that's all.
no subject
She does touch her hair, though. Twists a lock around her finger and decides yes, good, her hair is indeed soft.
"Is Boxer okay?" She asks, at last, reaching down to pet the dog. "He's not usually this... subdued. Do I smell or something?" She makes like she's going to sniff her armpit. "He's never minded Bull's Eye before."
no subject
Oh Christ, he hasn't even thought about that. How's he going to explain away his dog aging two years to the vet? Has he actually aged even, or is he back where he was before... Everything.
He seems happy with the pets though, leaning into Nancy's touch. Certainly hasn't forgotten Nancy, everything is just different. He's adjusting.
no subject
The atmosphere in the kitchen, in this entire day, is so weird. There's something hanging between them that she can't see, but she can feel it. She doesn't particularly care for it, either. Maybe Eames will clear it up once they have their tea.
Or not.
"So you heard about this new vampire that's moved into town?" She asks him. "She's Greek, by way of, of all places, Staten Island. I've heard rumors she's actually got a human familiar, somehow." It's a little unnerving, truthfully. Of course, Bill was, on paper, her familiar, too.