"It doesn't matter," Eames snaps out, fingers clenching at his waist, leaning back against the cool damp of the wall as he breathes for a moment. Arthur's comment has just the barest of flinches, just the slightest hints of hurt and want and need before it's closed back up and Eames isn't looking at him again, "Is that everything, darling? Only I can't stop to chat."

The way he says it is slow, light, like someone who barely knows the person they're talking to and is on their way somewhere.