Re: dream: eames and louis (and desire)
She knew well enough if you stroked the surface of a dream you would find beneath it what was most prominent, what lay practically on the surface itself. Eames didn't dream of Desire, when Eames dreamed at all. Those dreams were scant, far-few in between and precious. What she dreamed of, the blonde looked perfectly serene. She was a forger, darling. She could see the seams where the hall and the incumbent sat within the whole like the surprise cradled at heart of a Faberge egg.
The pulse thrummed. It was like moon-tides, pulling at water. The blonde's eyes were very blue and the pupils blotted to practically ink. Heat was a needle-prick dragged along exposed flesh: this was new. The blonde's smile was rose-bloom heavy. This was new and Eames rather liked new experiences.
"Why are you in his dream? This isn't mine, darling. I know my own mind." More to the point, she knew that the chemistry in the blood of a man lying not terribly far away from this town contributed to how far under she was. The blonde looked as unruffled as you could be with the opiate-smoke of someone else's work in hand. But she laughed, rich and indolent, the sound of someone used to being heard.
"A mystery, darling. An excellent one, by the looks of it."