It was Willy Wonka, just Willy Wonka. He shouldn’t be crying over Willy Wonka. But here he was, clutching Gene Wilder, the bulldog Arthur had given him for his birthday, and crying over Willy bloody Wonka.
He felt a hand touch his hair, then a soft kiss with a bit of a chuckle as Arthur walked past on his way from the kitchen to his office.
Eames clutched Gene Wilder tighter, scratched him behind the ears with one hand, before reaching for another tissue.