all_inclusive | It's a very subtle art

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It's a very subtle art

The fact of the matter, thinks Eames, is that reality should not be this malleable.

If he were asleep and attached to his PASIV, waking up to find himself in this form would be normal -- expected, even, given his tendency to pick up jobs that challenge him and there's something perfect about making a beautiful woman and assigning her minor flaws in order to keep the dreamer from suspecting that something is amiss. The problem is that he's not in a dream. His totem tells him that this is reality, which is making his head hurt.

It's been two days and Eames still can't shake this forge. He's hesitant to even call it that, but for the sake of his sanity, he's needed to retain that distinction in his mind, lest he go absolutely around the bend. He can't be what he is, and yet, he is. It's not the sort of thing he's come to expect to understand and he can't even find Arthur to search for an explanation.

The good news is that Eames has always been rather fluid when it comes to living in another person's skin. He might be forging in reality, but he will do it perfectly. He knows how to walk as a woman, how to wear the clothes, how to sit, and how to speak. It's one comfort in all this madness because at least he feels at home in his own skin.

If he still is himself. Eames raises slim fingers to the bartender, signalling for another scotch on the rocks being that drinking does tend to numb the worrisome notion that he's slipped so far into a dream that he doesn't know what's real anymore.

"You know," he remarks off-handedly to the companion at his side, "I had thought that I wouldn't have to pay so often for my own drinks. My expectations must be re-evaluated."

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"An idle threat," Arthur says, shoving the flute into Eames' hand before he feigns tugging on his ear to lead him out.

Eames takes the flute and sips at it, wandering after Arthur as casually as anyone might, even if suddenly in their underwear and a woman. His gait is steady, hips swaying, a flirtatious look in his eyes as they go. "Not so idle." He peers at the ink on his arms. "So? How do you like the tattoos, Arthur?"

Arthur wonders if Eames is aware that a few of them seem to have adjusted for the new body. "I didn't take you for a butterfly vamp stamp sort of girl."

"Sometimes, I just need the world to know I want to be free," is Eames' steady reply, peering over his shoulder. "The artwork has stayed decent, so at least we know I'm very picky about it in any world." He's still rather proud of the half-sleeve on his shoulder, though he supposes with the leaner limbs, it might look a bit at odds.

"Oh absolutely," Arthur replies in a similar deadpan. "Where's your room, before you get into more trouble."

"I'm trouble personified, I thought you knew that," Eames replies playfully, head down and hair tumbling forward as he uses charm and guile to smile at the passers-by in the halls, to keep them from getting in trouble. "Three to the right, then around the corner. That'll be me."

"Someday, I may decide you aren't worth all the mischief," Arthur says lightly, following Eames' directions.

"Here?"

"There," Eames agrees, finishing the rest of the champagne with a happy, bubbly note, following him inside while wearing a charming smile. "And you'd get bored if you had someone simple to predict in your life. Plain and simple."

Arthur doesn't bother to disagree; Eames is right. Although Eames has been the one to call Arthur a stick in the mud, they both know that the world of dream sharing has given him a taste for puzzles that need solving and paradoxes to accept.

"I'm sure I'd find something to amuse me."

"I'd rather be the amusement," Eames says, nudging the key into the door and letting them inside. He drops his clothes on the nearest chair without much care, sliding his fingers over the strap of a bra as he smirks at Arthur. "Do you know how much of a headfuck it was to measure myself for this? I had to buy it. I couldn't just imagine it and have it come into existence."

"Having never altered my gender," Arthur remarks in a light tone, "no, I don't know."

Feeling impudent, he goes to the minibar and extracts something to drink.

"Trust me, it's a mess," is Eames' opinion on the whole matter, seeing as he hardly knows what to do with it. He knows how to cope with long hair and tits and this body, but only in a dream. Facing it in reality is a bit heavier, makes him feel pinned down.

He crosses his legs smoothly, perched on the edge of Arthur's bed, only in his underwear. "Should I get dressed or is there a point yet to be made?"

"Oh don't hold back on my account," Arthur says, reaching out for the room service menu.

"Would you like a dinner that doesn't consist of scotch?"

Eames stretches out on the bed, legs crossed and hips pushed into his sheets. The lace of the underwear is like it is in the dream and he praises himself, smugly, for his attention to accuracy. "Order me anything," he replies. "The champagne's already gone to my head, dear, no stopping that."

"That's a dangerous freedom you're giving to someone like me," Arthur reminds him. After all, he's done nothing to hide his epicurean leanings.

"I was living in Kenya, Arthur," Eames replies, slim fingers hiding a bemused smile behind them. "Trust me when I say that the most indulgent delicacies you can imagine have passed these lips," he says. On his feet, he heads for his wardrobe and tugs out a henley that is too large for him now and quickly divests of the bra before tugging on the loose-fitting garment with ease, choosing comfort within the walls of this home.

That does prompt a laugh out of him and Arthur nods, picking up the phone to order wild game terrine and the seasonal mushroom salad, among other things.

"Should be here soon."

"Good," Eames replies, draping his slender arms around Arthur's neck from behind, getting comfortable as he slots his body in against Arthur's and makes sure they're flush together. "What shall we do until then?"

"I'm sure you can think of something." Arthur lets himself take on a flirtatious tone, though getting intimate with Eames in this shape, at least after their many fits and starts, doesn't seem right.

Eames lays small kisses over Arthur's neck, wishing they had done more so that Arthur can give him a direct report when all is said and done. Honestly, this might be the best opportunity for research he's ever, ever had. "I need you to take measurements, later. Video me, a bit," he says.

Despite his resolution not to go too far, Arthur can't help but revel under this attention for the moment. "Whatever for?"

"What better time to research forgery than now?" Eames replies, as if shocked that Arthur hadn't thought about this himself. "Really, Arthur, the muscle movement alone," he says, eyes bright with possibility. "This is an invitation for improvement."

"Fair enough," Arthur concedes. Suddenly he moves away and shifts almost completely into the mode of business. There's only the fraction of a tease in his eyes that betrays him.

"Give me your phone then."

Eames bends over for the phone, giving Arthur a decent view of the arse in nothing more than panties before straightening up, flipping the hair over the shoulder and handing it to him. Hands on his hips, he begins to pace the room, stretching and clearing his throat, like he's warming up for a forge rather than actually being in one.

As soon as it's in his hand, Arthur begins to record it, following Eames with the camera and trying not to distract him from the matter at hand.

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