"I'd hope the former, if anything," Eames says with a shrug, finding himself increasingly amused by the song as it plays on, wretched though it is. One leg crossing over the other, ankle resting on opposite knee, he lets his foot bounce slightly in time to it, a gesture that he would only describe as ironic. There's nothing about this that merits it, though he's beginning to suspect that he'll wind up humming it for the rest of the day, which would just be bloody fantastic. "Might be forgivable that way. Otherwise, it has nothing going for it."