[Arthur shakes his head because no he doesn't mind, the most he's ever thought of objecting being kept to anywhere he might live (you can't get the smell out, and while he wouldn't mind about say, a couch, the suits are another matter.) This being none of that, he doesn't have the place to mind, much less a reason to, but he also declines the offer - polite though it is. ]
No - but thanks.
[ Maybe another day, but the scratched, dry threat of his throat already tells him better not and the swimming of his head throws in a second.
But White, Arthur remembers telling Eames, he liked. Likes rather. He tries to imagine him in the dreamshare and fails miserably though - perhaps because of his imagination (sub-par, he's been told, and he knows it's because he likes his rules, his practicalities, even in a dream and is sometimes so stuck on them that he fails to see - the saying goes - the forest for the trees) or perhaps because White is just so...
...well Arthur isn't sure of the word. Grounded? Not quite what he's looking for. Earthy? Further off. He gives up trying, to figure for the moment, finishing his water with some surprise, not realizing he'd gotten that far on it.
Presumably by now White has lit up, and Arthur eyes the cigarette thoughtfully. Eames used to smoke - especially after a fight when they were at the base - or after a meal at the Cobbs', while working on a job in Paris. He doesn't so much now, Arthur has noticed which makes it all the more problematic that it's still Eames he thinks of.
Glancing away, he absently flattens the bottle - habit, though they don't have a recycling bin anywhere remotely near this room. Free hand turning the device in his pocket idly, he ends up asking, ] Ever tried to get out?
[ Of this place, the City he means of course but doesn't think it needs clarifying. Some people have, he knows, but he also believes not all attempts are likely recorded, especially perhaps smaller ones. ]
no subject
No - but thanks.
[ Maybe another day, but the scratched, dry threat of his throat already tells him better not and the swimming of his head throws in a second.
But White, Arthur remembers telling Eames, he liked. Likes rather. He tries to imagine him in the dreamshare and fails miserably though - perhaps because of his imagination (sub-par, he's been told, and he knows it's because he likes his rules, his practicalities, even in a dream and is sometimes so stuck on them that he fails to see - the saying goes - the forest for the trees) or perhaps because White is just so...
...well Arthur isn't sure of the word. Grounded? Not quite what he's looking for. Earthy? Further off. He gives up trying, to figure for the moment, finishing his water with some surprise, not realizing he'd gotten that far on it.
Presumably by now White has lit up, and Arthur eyes the cigarette thoughtfully. Eames used to smoke - especially after a fight when they were at the base - or after a meal at the Cobbs', while working on a job in Paris. He doesn't so much now, Arthur has noticed which makes it all the more problematic that it's still Eames he thinks of.
Glancing away, he absently flattens the bottle - habit, though they don't have a recycling bin anywhere remotely near this room. Free hand turning the device in his pocket idly, he ends up asking, ] Ever tried to get out?
[ Of this place, the City he means of course but doesn't think it needs clarifying. Some people have, he knows, but he also believes not all attempts are likely recorded, especially perhaps smaller ones. ]