He blinks, stupid and slow because that's - Eames had always wondered, had never asked and he knows that's bad, of course it is, but somehow - "Oh fuck you, darling. You wouldn't be here if you weren't a good person under all of that prickle."

He rubs a hand over his face and then just sort of shifts, sliding down the wall to sit on the damp ground because he can't keep standing and he knows he should be using this, pushing back at the other man and escaping. "There's no job in Morocco. Christ, I wish I hadn't dumped all my cigarettes."