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Six a.m. and the sun has only barely begun to drag itself over the horizon. Eames leans, drowsily against the kitchen counter and watches the steam curl from the top of his favourite mug, his mind more or less blank, mired in a post-sleep haze. Years of finely-honed instinct more than any real finesse tell him when to remove the soggy teabag from the water. He knows the scent, and the exact tint the water should take on, to be satisfyingly flavourful, but not bitter.It’s a simple please, really. Much like being able to take his mug, and the morning’s newspaper, back to bed, settle in next to Arthur - who is still soundly asleep, and snoring ever-so-slightly - to enjoy without any other demands on his time.Retirement, he thinks, suits him very nicely.