He's not wrong. For all Robert might seem cold and distant as a glacier, he's far more warm beneath than any might assume. For all he's tried to be, he's not as much like his father as he'd like for people to believe. He just doesn't have the same cutting edge, the ferocity and dog-eat-dog aggressive nature that Maurice had - and he's tried, certainly. He can't count how many times he'd rowed fiercely with his father, his father who thought him too soft, too gentle, too weak to pick up where he was leaving off. His father who left him behind with handfuls of inheritance and responsibility that he doesn't know how to manage.

Nevertheless, Eames had seemed to learn early on that it doesn't take too much prying for that cold facade to begin cracking, but most people haven't bothered to try. Which is just as well, really. His lifestyle doesn't leave much room for friends.

"No, not at all," he says succinctly, lips pursed as he sets the glass down on the table again, the firewhiskey already burning a hot trail down his throat. Robert's not one to drink himself silly, but the occasional shot or tumbler of whiskey or brandy is expected of him often enough, and he doesn't mind the way it makes him a little looser, a little calmer.

Robert's blue eyes flicker up from the table to Eames' face again, hooded and penetrating. "What have you been doing with yourself?"