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This is new and a particular shade of not good that Eames has very rarely considered before. In his time, he's forged men, women, beings of no gender at all, aliens, and an array of animals in order to get inside a mark's head and find their secrets. What he has not done is lost all his clothes as he wandered into Arthur's room at the hotel and found himself in a simplistic mind-set that's only concerned with a few things.
Play being one of them, food another, and affection a third.
He lets out a sad whine as he tries to adjust his mind and remember what movement as an animal is like. There are four legs to account for instead of the usual two and as Eames trots into the room, tail wagging (because he's still very happy to see Arthur), he thinks that this hotel is practically forger academy, forcing him to learn how to work and walk in other forms while in reality.
He should increase his rates. His skills are getting quite the workout.
Settling his chin on Arthur's knee, he gives another plaintive dog-cry, peering up at him with eyes he hopes are every bit as forlorn as he's intending them to be.
Play being one of them, food another, and affection a third.
He lets out a sad whine as he tries to adjust his mind and remember what movement as an animal is like. There are four legs to account for instead of the usual two and as Eames trots into the room, tail wagging (because he's still very happy to see Arthur), he thinks that this hotel is practically forger academy, forcing him to learn how to work and walk in other forms while in reality.
He should increase his rates. His skills are getting quite the workout.
Settling his chin on Arthur's knee, he gives another plaintive dog-cry, peering up at him with eyes he hopes are every bit as forlorn as he's intending them to be.
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Damn brown eyes. They're almost as bad as Eames.
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It'd be much more convenient if he could speak, but the mere thought only prompts him to bark, once, as if he's been commanded by his own thoughts.
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Arthur stops in the middle of reaching out the pet the dog as he scrutinizes the details of its face, the way the dog cocks his head, and the peculiarly human quality of his eyes.
The result of his analysis is a long string of curses that act as ample reminder that Arthur was, in fact, a Marine once upon a time.
"Eames."
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"What am I going to do with you, darling?"
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He won't tell Eames how charming it looks to see him curled up so.
"And to think, all you've wanted for ages is to be naked in my bed."
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"Do you remember what door it was?"
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As much as Eames is enjoying himself, he's a tad afraid of letting his full consciousness slip into an animal's brain. He's not sure he'd get it back.
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"That was an odd experience," he confesses.
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He's not even playing. When he lets out a pleased sound, it's the animal in his brain telling him how much he enjoys it. "Hello, dear," he replies, purring as if he's been a cat and not a dog. "You're very nurturing when you want to be," he says, pulling the door shut given his current lack of clothing.
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"Yes, I'm sure. The improved attitude helped."
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"Is this your attempt at seducing me?"
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"My dear, I think you're trying to make trouble on purpose."
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He sheds his jacket and drapes it across the chair. "You're paying for the dry cleaning."
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