Eames stares at the man across the street, sheltering under the awning an glaring at the sheets of rain splashing down. He's far too impeccably dressed to risk getting soaked, even though Eames bets (knows) that the water will make the man's hair curl sweetly at the nape of his neck and bead his long eyelashes with water droplets waiting to be kissed off.
"I need this," he says to the stockbrocker next to him, and liberates the man of furled umbrella. The rain drums on the fabric as Eames saunters across the sreet to where the man is standing.
"Shall we?" he offers his arm.
Arthur rolls his eye, but huddles close to Eames as they venture out onto the wet London streets.