[When the old lady approaches, Arthur stops still on the spot, the wide, amused grin falling slowly into a look of confusion as he tries to make out what she's saying, takes note of her gestures and glances over at the cardboard box curiously.
He's about to ask what it is he's missing, what's in the box that makes Eames throw him the unreadable glance, but then he sees it, the puppy popping out over the top, a tiny ball of black and white fluff. He can't help it, he smiles, heart aching a little at how adorable he finds it. But then he catches himself, brings back the baffled expression as he turns to Eames.]
What is it, what is she saying? [Looking back to the puppy, he frowns as he tries to see if it's okay while it attempts to scramble fully out of the confinement.] Is there something wrong with it? It seems a bit...small. [He shuffles closer, gaze torn between the dog and Eames.]
[Crouching down, Eames reaches out a hand to ruffle his fingers through the puppy's soft fur. The little thing yips at him in response, tries to use Eames' hand as leverage to get outside of his carboard home.]
She's trying to sell him off. [Eames explains to Arthur, tilting his head because even though the puppy is adorable, his world is still angled Arthur's way.] This little mite is a runt, apparently, not been very well by the look of it. I think she's trying to get us to take him off her hands. I don't suppose she can keep him, dogs are still another mouth to feed.
[As if to prove Eames' point the little puppy snags his teeth in Eames' jacket sleeve and pulls, soft little baby growl falling from him. The man he's tugging on laughs, quiet and utterly delighted as he extracts himself from his trap.] People don't really like the small dogs, I suppose. If they've been a bit poorly then I guess it's a sign they're a little bit more difficult. I knew someone who used to breed dogs and the runts never faired very well.
[Listening, he gives a small nod of the head, having thought it might be something along those lines. He looks over to the woman who's still muttering in a language he frustratingly doesn't understand and gesturing every which way with an urgency. She's small, frail, and not at all well-kept, as if she can only just scrape by herself without a dog to take care of as well.]
That's what I thought. [He watches Eames with the small animal, heart swelling and face fond, and he knows what they have to do, that he can't leave the dog with the old woman because he could never live with himself if he does, forever wondering if it survived or not and what he could have done, and the way the other man is, the evident way it brightens him, draws out a side that he's never witnessed before and never wants to stop seeing.
His wallet is in his hand before he realises it, thumb flipping over the notes he exchanged for dollars earlier that day.] How much does she want for it?
Anything, I think she's pretty desperate Arthur. [He looks up at that though, hand still pressed against the puppy's head. He nudges Eames with the curve of his nose, yipping and wagging his tail excitedly as he tries to fight his way inside Eames' sleeve.]
What are you doing? [It's just the slightest tinge of curious, confused as he frowns up at Arthur.] Even if we give her money to look after him it won't last.
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He's about to ask what it is he's missing, what's in the box that makes Eames throw him the unreadable glance, but then he sees it, the puppy popping out over the top, a tiny ball of black and white fluff. He can't help it, he smiles, heart aching a little at how adorable he finds it. But then he catches himself, brings back the baffled expression as he turns to Eames.]
What is it, what is she saying? [Looking back to the puppy, he frowns as he tries to see if it's okay while it attempts to scramble fully out of the confinement.] Is there something wrong with it? It seems a bit...small. [He shuffles closer, gaze torn between the dog and Eames.]
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She's trying to sell him off. [Eames explains to Arthur, tilting his head because even though the puppy is adorable, his world is still angled Arthur's way.] This little mite is a runt, apparently, not been very well by the look of it. I think she's trying to get us to take him off her hands. I don't suppose she can keep him, dogs are still another mouth to feed.
[As if to prove Eames' point the little puppy snags his teeth in Eames' jacket sleeve and pulls, soft little baby growl falling from him. The man he's tugging on laughs, quiet and utterly delighted as he extracts himself from his trap.] People don't really like the small dogs, I suppose. If they've been a bit poorly then I guess it's a sign they're a little bit more difficult. I knew someone who used to breed dogs and the runts never faired very well.
Reply
That's what I thought. [He watches Eames with the small animal, heart swelling and face fond, and he knows what they have to do, that he can't leave the dog with the old woman because he could never live with himself if he does, forever wondering if it survived or not and what he could have done, and the way the other man is, the evident way it brightens him, draws out a side that he's never witnessed before and never wants to stop seeing.
His wallet is in his hand before he realises it, thumb flipping over the notes he exchanged for dollars earlier that day.] How much does she want for it?
Reply
What are you doing? [It's just the slightest tinge of curious, confused as he frowns up at Arthur.] Even if we give her money to look after him it won't last.
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