Re: [Dream Training]
Eames had never cultivated a fondness for intravenous drug-use. Opium he'd tried, but you smoked that, or at least, you did in the places he visited. He absolutely would have darted a smile into Arthur's perfunctory carefulness if only to unsettle the man with a needle at his elbow, but Arthur carefully avoided eye contact and Eames settled for reclining back onto institutional linens and smiling smugly the second Arthur did face him. A peeping, sly smile meant for a singular audience.
He knew the redhead didn't utterly understand. She didn't know how you drugged someone to somnolence, who you paid off and how you stage-managed it but he raised both eyebrows when Arthur mentioned 'all the time' but held his tongue. Eames knew very well shared dreaming needn't be a weapon; he'd past practice without all the rubber tubing to go on. "A shared dream can even be a pleasure," he said, his tongue thick and his mouth cotton and his eyelids drooping. "In the right mind."
"They're nicer than yours," was the only thing he had left to say before he tumbled headfirst into dreaming. Eames was not an architect. He wasn't good at attention to detail so his mind drew on memory. He'd Vaughn in mind, and so he thought of Paris, and when he 'woke' within the dream, they were sat at a small table just beyond the rain in a street that was largely gray. Eames himself chose to look like Eames himself, in a jade green blazer over gray slacks and a pale yellow shirt open at the neck beneath. He had a cup of coffee in front of him and he looked expectantly in the direction of his companion.