There's something about taking on the appearance of someone whose soul has already departed, the sort of thing that makes his skin tighten when he's in the waking world. Eames doesn't like being superstitious but when you have a long life of stories being told and heard, experiences drug up from the deepest of safes at a sound, some things just stick with you; a fishbone at the very back of his throat that won't go down no matter how many times he swallows. Her throat is long - fragile, an easy target for the way she ended up dying. The photos show bruising and the patterns of fingers angled back together when her head isn't snapped to the side - the man who wants the information in Mister Morley's head tried going through his wife first and when that didn't work saw fit to go through his dreams instead.
It's almost passive aggressive, he likes to think, all this much dance and written checks instead of just asking Morley himself.
He hates working with gangsters even more than he dislikes the dead, but the payout is exceptional and it'd been a personal request.
And he always figures if he does something enough times, he'll numb to it eventually, as easy as his interferences are - as easy as any other lie.
Singapore's weather leaves him in cottons and linens instead of silks and he's been almost remiss for it, but instead of going back to change two or three times a day Eames just powers through it. He's used to heat in any form and the feel of sweat rolling down his neck under his collar incites more of a brush than a shudder, just means he has to use more hair gel to keep a coif in place against all the moisture. Eames has been out of the dream for thirty minutes now, taking a bit of a breather and locking their current establishment down in favour for the bar several blocks down with the eight ceiling fans. Eames tries to keep away from alcohol on the job because it makes his dreams less sharp, stays in the body for almost three days, the sort of personal rule he's almost disappointed about as he works on a glass of water instead.
He ignores the buzz in his pocket for at least ten minutes before reminding himself about it, fingers skirting past his wallet and pocketwatch for the cell phone he'll toss with the rest of housekeeping. ]
would have seen it if youd bothered to stay long enugh
no subject
There's something about taking on the appearance of someone whose soul has already departed, the sort of thing that makes his skin tighten when he's in the waking world. Eames doesn't like being superstitious but when you have a long life of stories being told and heard, experiences drug up from the deepest of safes at a sound, some things just stick with you; a fishbone at the very back of his throat that won't go down no matter how many times he swallows. Her throat is long - fragile, an easy target for the way she ended up dying. The photos show bruising and the patterns of fingers angled back together when her head isn't snapped to the side - the man who wants the information in Mister Morley's head tried going through his wife first and when that didn't work saw fit to go through his dreams instead.
It's almost passive aggressive, he likes to think, all this much dance and written checks instead of just asking Morley himself.
He hates working with gangsters even more than he dislikes the dead, but the payout is exceptional and it'd been a personal request.
And he always figures if he does something enough times, he'll numb to it eventually, as easy as his interferences are - as easy as any other lie.
Singapore's weather leaves him in cottons and linens instead of silks and he's been almost remiss for it, but instead of going back to change two or three times a day Eames just powers through it. He's used to heat in any form and the feel of sweat rolling down his neck under his collar incites more of a brush than a shudder, just means he has to use more hair gel to keep a coif in place against all the moisture. Eames has been out of the dream for thirty minutes now, taking a bit of a breather and locking their current establishment down in favour for the bar several blocks down with the eight ceiling fans. Eames tries to keep away from alcohol on the job because it makes his dreams less sharp, stays in the body for almost three days, the sort of personal rule he's almost disappointed about as he works on a glass of water instead.
He ignores the buzz in his pocket for at least ten minutes before reminding himself about it, fingers skirting past his wallet and pocketwatch for the cell phone he'll toss with the rest of housekeeping. ]
would have seen it if youd bothered to stay long enugh