seeorseem | (no subject)

It's been a long time since Eames had to be the subject of a dream. He's been very good to avoid it, given that his subconscious often gives too much of him away without his intentions there (that is, after all, why they call it a subconscious), but in order to properly show Mystique the dreamspace, he's allowed her to be the architect. That said, the moment they hit the dream and the PASIV was working away, Eames had hit the ground running, rearranging his body and his voice and his core balance to become a lovely little blonde number that the hotel had seen fit to introduce to him.

He's honestly beginning to believe the Nexus is his crash course in the minutia of perfect forgery (though not perfect, never perfect. It always helps to have some flaws).

Now, though, he's sitting in a little chair with a drink as he waits for Mystique to find him in the dream, wondering if she'll be able to pick Eames out. If not, then he's more than patient and can wait until she comes around before engaging and seeing what fun someone who can shift in real life can have when there are no rules at all.

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Perhaps there was something in the steadiness of his gaze as he watched her, or in the easy slackness of his broad shoulders as he sat across from her, Mystique believed him. At least as far as anyone could believe a professional liar. Where a decade had hardened her, it had as well taken the sheen off her desperation for the acceptance that lay forever out of reach. It was no longer absolution, but valued still for the rare nature of the thing.

As it was, she did her best not to read too much into what amounted still to a stranger's opinion. Not without valuing it, of course, but in understanding that he could not be aware of the implications even so casual a statement would mean in her world.

"A blue woman," she said with a broad smile, tipping her head back with the action. "Wouldn't be out of place?"

Eames raises both brows at her, running his tongue along the inside of his cheek as he sinks into the chair before smoothly rising out of it, offering her his arm and encouraging her onwards. "I could have a whole blue naked orchestra playing Salieri in here and so long as it felt right and like it belonged, it wouldn't matter," he says, punctuating the words with a throaty, soft laugh.

"Unless you were aiming for more forging practice?"

How long it had been since she had had a chance to laugh, full out, she couldn't exactly remember. Then again, remembering didn't keep her from it then while she stood and slipped her arm into his as if it were all as easy as that. "I think I'd pay to see that." Strange, she hadn't thought about it for so long, and yet she was almost distracted a moment by the realization that she hadn't ever seen another blue mutant still. No matter how far she had traveled, there had been none quite like her.

There was more curiosity over the dreamscape than there was any desire to mull over the thought before, and when she spoke again it was to say, "That depends. What else can you do here?"

"If I were a more skilled architect, I could play with physics the likes of which you wouldn't believe," Eames speaks, but he settles for a glass of scotch with two cubes of ice in it, at his fingertips even though it hadn't been there before. "Now, mind you, I'm passable," he admits, given that he would never go so far as to be modest, "but it's hardly my wheelhouse. My talent lies in theft and forgery," he says. "Come on," he encourages. "Let's take a tour and maybe you could play with the landscape a touch, see if you've got any talent in that."

She considered his words only for a moment before she replied, the curve of her smile pulling deeper on one side than the other, "You'd be surprised." Revealing what she was capable of had been one thing, but aside from a reference or two to the fact that she was not the only one in her world with abilities beyond human capability, she had never made direct references to the things either Charles or Erik could do. Those were their secrets and for all that had happened between them, she would not betray them that far.

The idea of being able to manipulate the world outside of herself was one she had set aside long before, but was perhaps thrilling. Or maybe the thought brought something more like nausea, she could not be sure. Still, she nodded. "Lead the way, Mister Eames."

He's more than happy to, but he does make sure that there are mirrors sprinkled every so often in their path. If she plans to come after him, he'll be prepared. If not, it's better to be paranoid than to be thrown out of the dream. He opens the door to what appears to be a quaint European street, though none that could actually be named.

Cobb's little lessons about not using memory and reality have sunk in and his own tendency to look out for his sanity have adopted it. "Some architects put detail into everything," he explains. "I've a more focused approach when I build. Put your details where you want the target looking. Guide their attention. And if you can't use the dream, use yourself," he says, changing his tie to a colour brighter than the rest of the dream, that stands out.

Where the inhuman blue of her skin worn openly was more honest than any other face she might have chosen, the hyperawareness that came with wearing what she was could only give off signals that might draw more attention than either of them could use. She let the blue feather away to leave the blonde form that had been her default for so much of her life.

If she avoided looking too closely at her reflection in any mirror she passed, so be it.

"Details," she repeated, brushing a hand down the skirt she had pulled around herself. The skirt shortened into a design more appropriate to her own decade than the Nexus. "Distracting the eye has never been an issue for me." She gave him a wide, bright smile, affecting an air best described as 'distracted California bikini model.'