"It's more that I think my mother is going to end up popping out of the woodwork and shout at me for not calling her more often," Eames remarks with a slight degree of genuine fear that monsters in dreams and men with guns haven't been able to evoke. Then again, Eames has been ignoring his mother for months, now, and he didn't get his ability to handle himself from his Dad.

He does grin, though, for the way Arthur's taken his hand. Eames squeezes it and tugs him along. "She'd probably hit me with the bloody mallet."