"Humans don't eat foxes. They eat chickens. And besides, once I put in the part about cooking and killing, I've gone and killed my own joke," he gives a little mock-whine, side-eying Eames. "I ain't one to agree with stereotypes, but that's one thing that's been proved true to me time and time again. No sense of humor."

At this point, Jackson doesn't care, let them hear. Though that may be the drink talking, as he makes a habit of saying things he regrets in the morning.

"Not a fan, either?" There's a beat, before Jackson gets up close to Eames, snaking a hand over his shoulder, chummy as can be. All past ills over ruining his joke forgiven. "Actually, I think I like you."