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[ Oleoresin Capsicum leaves a bitter, irritated feeling in the back of the throat if you're not careful. Even hours after that initial flush is gone, the smell can linger -- coating the inside of the mouth. Why Eames' dream smells of tear gas is anyone's guess (a defense mechanism, a pointed nostalgia, a countermeasure).

Smoke rolls thickly across the landscape at a distance, the source of it unclear. It adds an extra acrid note to the already thick-hung smell in the air. ]

[ He finds himself in --- well. Wherever here is. It makes him want to cough, so he does, even though for some reason this feels like he's admitting something. Aristos squints into the distance, into the smoke, despite the fact his vision 20/20 perfect here without the need for glasses. He frowns. ]

Eames? Where are we? [ Or maybe the question is when. ]

We're in a dream, Aristos, [ Eames says, not bothering to curb the fake pedantry in her tone. It's her way of saying that they're nowhere in particular, nowhen in particular either -- the specifics of reality so deconstructed and re-stitched together that any semblance of an actual time and place have been all but obliterated.

The rolling green hills are reminiscent of Ireland, the olive trees that dot the landscape recall Italy. She's standing with Aristos on the highest hill of them all, one with steep inclines for sides -- unscalable. It's a vantage point from which they can look down upon the ruins of half a dozen civilizations. A fortification. An acropolis. (That the thought points to Greece may be simply a coincidence. Or not.) ]

[ At her words, something frustrated makes its way across his face. It makes him look younger than he really is. ] That's not what I meant, [ he says, even though it's obvious.

Aristos' gaze is pulled down, so he follows it. There are ruins here -- a pediment here or column there that suggest that he's seen it once before, some time ago, as a child maybe when he was visiting his yiayia and pappou in Greece. But the rest of the structures are nothing he's seen before, contain no hint as to their origin. In truth, it makes him feel a little nauseous, the crumbling mess and height between them somehow vertigo inducing. ]

How many countries have you been to? [ Aristos asks, because for some reason it feels relevant. A question uncurbed. ]

[ One of Eames' hands curls over his shoulder and pulls him back with a steady force. Not gentle, but not too firm either -- just certain. The reason why might not be readily apparent at first, but then the sides of the hill they're standing on begin to erode away, large chunks of the cliff crumbling away to reveal the skeletal remains of other hyper-stylized civilizations. The Mayans, the Sumerians, the Silk Road. Eames' hand stays where it is. ]

Forty two. [ An odd thing for Eames to know off the top of her head, so it's unclear as to whether or not she's lying. (She isn't.) It doesn't help that the next thing she says is: ] Now ask me how many I'm wanted in.

[ He's -- grateful, for the touch, even more so when it stays there. It grounds him, the same way he said I'm not about to go trusting her with everything but he knew that wouldn't be the truth for long. By now, he's trusted her with most, and occasionally he thinks he wants to take it all back but that's not how any of this works.

The noise startles him, but what comes next is -- wonder. Remnants of something long-dead at the height of their glory; he can appreciate this. Whatever this is. ]

How many are you wanted in? [ Artie asks, again, and he finds himself smiling even though there's nothing particularly humorous about any of this (and that's the way Eames functions, he supposes). ] Forty?

[ Eames laughs from somewhere behind Aristos, her fingers flexing as she comes to stand beside him, her hand finally falling back to her side -- idle. ] You flatter me, [ she says, instead of answering, and in the distance that thick pall of smoke begins to thin itself out to a haze (tinged the faintest shade of purple, like the underside of doves' wings).

Although she understands the mechanics, building dreams from the ground up (literally) is not something that Eames ever took to with great enthusiasm or finesse. Hers have a flare for the melodramatic, a heightened sense of scope and perspective that occasionally teetering on the absurd or surreal. Upon reflection, it's the complete opposite of her forges, which are subtle and nuanced and grounded in reality.

The wind picks up, kicking up some of that tear gas smell with it as well. She studies his profile carefully as she speaks. ]

Not quite like your dreams, is it?

No, [ he readily agrees. ] They're not.

[ The thing about this dream -- Eames' dream -- is that it feels like the end of something. It reminds him of a graveyard, a mausoleum of ancient cities and kingdoms and rulers, greats that fell into place here all because Eames thought it so. Everything about it is off (even his own sense of balance, he thinks) of reality by an infinitely small amount, but enough for it to matter. It doesn't make Aristos feel ill at ease, exactly, but it's an unusual feeling. It's dizzying more than anything. He'd believe her (young, impressionable, inexperienced but not stupid), if she told him that the ground could swallow him whole.

He looks down at his feet with a small frown. There's the remains of a window there, a fair distance to the left -- or a door, he's not sure which. The young architect turns to glance at her, searching her face for signs of-- something. ] Are they always like this?

[ Eames gaze doesn't so much as falter when Aristos turns to look at her and it's not a challenge or a dare (the way it might be otherwise, if they were awake), just the simple and silent acceptance of him looking at her and the knowledge that she has all intentions of looking back. ]

No, [ she tells him, her answer honest and bare-faced in that honesty. This dream is a patchwork of allusion and crumbled kingdoms, not because this is the stuff of Eames' dreams but because she had suspected that this would be something Aristos would better appreciate (beyond the exaggerated proportions her mind was prone to, of course). A half-sunken minaret, the husk of a tiered pagoda, the wrought-iron veinwork of a shattered rosette window. The language of architecture, stolen out of history books as best as Eames can understand it.

It's a thoughtfulness she doesn't afford most people. But she offers it to Aristos without actually offering. ] This is what they're like when you're here, darling.

Oh. [ Because Aristos knows what that means (more importantly, he knows what that means coming from someone like Eames). But it's not a mark of surprise but rather of acceptance, partly because Mombasa has dulled his sense of surprise (the noisy markets, the any number of Yusuf's cats who would startle him out of sleep). He turns to look out at the expanse in front of him, every parallel and intersection. The thing is that she's not wrong (she hardly ever is) -- He can appreciate it, and he does.

Sometimes, Artie thinks he maybe even understands what Eames is trying to tell him. ]

This is amazing, [ he starts with a smile, then edits: ] But you already knew that.

The thought had occurred to me, yes. [ Eames is not above having her ego catered to; in fact, she responds quite well to most appeals made to it, even the most transparent types of pandering. Aristos' comment, however, is none of those things which makes it satisfying in a completely different way. There's something rueful to the sentiment, rueful in a way that only ruminating on the ways of youth can ever properly evoke. Ever since Aristos arrived in Kenya, Eames has been prone to feeling it more and more (first in passing and then more deliberately). And for once in her life she perhaps understands the pedagogic tendencies of Cobb and Arthur, their willingness (she would argue eagerness) to look towards young things like Artie in the hopes of molding something out of their malleable clay.

It would be easy enough for her to impress upon him her own philosophies. He's desperate enough to be something other than what he's most afraid to become and Eames is more than subtle enough to negotiate that specific brand of insidiousness. But, she's decided, that would miss the point completely. Aristos had been willing to entrust himself to the crucible of her hands and Eames -- usually so eager to shuck personal responsibility -- had accepted it. An act of good faith should be returned with another. And so he would be afforded the opportunity to reforge himself in whatever way he saw fit. ]

You'll forgive any incongruities, won't you. Not that I'll afford you any say.

[ It makes him laugh (again). He glances at her now, brows raised, expression similar to one he gave Cobb (I guess I thought that the dreamspace would be more about the visual--) but it teeters more on thoughtful than amused. ] You know, I don't think I'd believe you, if there were any. [ He shrugs. ] I feel like they'd all be deliberate.

[ It's not that he thinks of Eames as dishonest (or at least, not wholly). The thing here is that Eames is, well, Eames, and for all her eloquence and elusiveness he thinks that if any of them were to give him a test to pass, it would be her. It comes as a little bit of a revelation, half surprise but also half expected, that he wants to pass whatever test is laid in front of him -- and wants to do so with flying colors. More than anything he wants to please Eames, the way he'd wanted to please Arthur or Cobb during test run after test run. What that says about him is anyone's -- well.

What that says about him is Eames' guess, really, isn't it?

Aristos crouches momentarily, swiping his hand along the ground. Wedged between his fingers and collected in his palm are tiny stones from where the hillside has eroded away, ones that look like some mix of Mayan gold and ash from Vesuvius, maybe calcified fragments of bone from merchants past. He hefts them like pebbles, experimenting with their weight in his palm.

After a beat, he says: ] Are you wanted in Greece?

[ Some of the pebbles are much heavier than others, incongruously so. Every so often, Aristos comes across one shot through with veins of something tarnished and cold like gunmetal, a peppering against otherwise smooth, inert rock. Others have vein work of something translucent like beach glass, remnants of that shattered Gothic window in the distance worn over and under by an ocean's worth of time. Eames smiles down at the top of Aristos' inclined head, muses on it for a moment the way one might regard a trophy, or a gift acquired that she's slowly unwrapping (mindful not to tear the paper). She's certain that, if she wanted to, she could simply flick his mind open and take a long, lingering glance; jimmy him open like a lock on a safety deposit box and scour the contents for what's useful and what's not.

But despite outward appearances and what people like Arthur like to say about Eames, she enjoys subtlety most of all. The anticipation and planning that goes into stealing something (sometimes even more than the prize itself). Besides, she figures, Artistos has managed to wring something like fondness or fascination out of her for the time being. More than enough to earn him a temporary reprieve from whatever she's capable of. For a moment, she considers touching the crown of Aristos' head with her fingertips -- just there, where the hair curls and threatens a cowlick (so very boyish).

In the end, she doesn't. Just bides her time instead, regarding the distant hills, draped heavily with the haze of smoke now dissolving into fog. ] I am not, [ she says with an almost regretful tone. But more importantly: ] Are you, dear?

[ It's a personal question, delivered as a tease. Eames has read over Aristos' personal file (and has done her own poking aside), but she wonders what exactly Greece means to him. If anything at all. ]

[ By the time Eames answers, he's already straightened, spurred on by impatience or youth or whatever has decided to take up residence inside his veins. After a moment's consideration he throws a pebble into the distance, watching it rise in a wide arc and disappearing into sky, landing somewhere there among the ruins. He's heard her, but he doesn't make a move to answer. Instead Aristos stares after that pebble, eyes locked on something in the distance. His brow furrows a little, the same way he does when he's thinking -- or over-thinking, as the case may be. ]

Yeah. [ And it's the truth, embedded in a moment he doesn't want to look at too closely. He throws another pebble; a wider arc, still disappearing into the horizon. ] In a way, I guess.

[ And as much as he wants to explain, he thinks of Arthur and the way she had said it means she plans on keeping you, as if that was warning enough (or a suitable warning at all). It's a resistant thought but he holds onto it; the idea that he's allowed his secrets too, if only because he's sure Eames has several. Keeping score isn't the name of the game -- but it could be, if he's not careful.

He wants to say we should go there sometime, but he knows how that sounds. So he doesn't. ]

[ Eames is silent for a moment, then two, and what she's doing is waiting for the suggestion she expects but that doesn't come. A curiosity maybe or a reminder that Aristos may be young, but she hasn't got as firm as grasp on him as everyone involved might think. It's a realization that both tickles her and irritates her slightly, the sentiment prickling over the tops of her forearms down to the tips of her fingers. She muses for a moment on what keeps him from extending something resembling an invitation and then hazards an educated guess.

In the distance, the husk of one dynasty rises out of the shell of another; muqarnas and a series crenellated arches collapse onto themselves to reveal a colonnade of broken pillars. They jut from the landscape like a splintered ribs protruding from the green belly of the earth. Greece, then, she decides. Instead of moving on, the conversation hovers about where it is, goaded by Eames' uncurbed inquisitiveness. ]

Do you speak Greek, Aristos? [ Eames then asks, her attention turned elsewhere so as to make the question seem harmless (or even careless). A pause and then-- ] It's one of the few languages Arthur doesn't know and I do. Were you aware?

[ Arthur -- the name lobbed into conversation like a heavy stone dropped into a very deep lake. Eames' eyes slide towards Aristos to gage his reaction, to see what ripples the pointwoman manages to send through him (if at all). ]

[ Arthur. It doesn't escape his attention, how casually and seamlessly Eames does it, bringing her up into their topic of conversation. It doesn't leave much room for him to doubt that it's unintentional; everything Eames does seems deliberate to him but it doesn't mean it surprises him any less. His frown deepens, followed by the flicker of something across his face -- crumpled, hard to name, the cousin of disappointment (but not) and whatever it was worth a shot was supposed to mean.

He thinks about lying to her, but he thinks that lying to Eames is like inviting a stranger into your home -- there are both good and bad ways to do it. ] Yeah, [ he admits with a shrug, lobbing another stone into the horizon. ] A little. My grandfather taught me a lot before he died. [ He'd gone back to Santorini every summer of high school, working with his grandfather in the gardens or fishing or doing some kind of manual labor; it kept him focused and attentive and more than anything appreciative of what he had. It was an important lesson, in the grand scheme of things, although where that left Aristos now -- in Kenya, with a woman whose first name he didn't even know, going nowhere with his education -- was another story entirely. ]

And no, I didn't know that. But there's a lot of things you know how to do that Arthur doesn't. [ It's phrased as a statement of fact -- one of Aristos' own observations -- than a question searching for confirmation, or even anything that defends Arthur (as Aristos has been known to do, on occasion, even though she didn't ask for it and certainly doesn't need it -- not from him, at least). ]

[ Eames bends at the knees, lowers herself to pluck a stone from the ground at her feet before straightening again, a hand smoothing her skirt. The rock she's chosen is narrow and oblong and pinched slightly in the middle like a fingerbone. It's embedded with something: a dark stone with hard edges. (A garnet lost from the diadem of queens; a pigeon's blood ruby mined from the first caches of Burma.) Eames holds it out to Aristos, the next stone for him to pitch off into the distance, if he's so inclined. A quite literal offer to go with her more suggestive one, as she tells him: ] If you're ever in the mind to learn some more, I'd be more than willing to teach you.

[ Her gaze lingers on the lobe of his ear when she speaks, and then slides down the scruffed line of his jaw to his mouth before slipping off towards the horizon again. There's a pause before she prompts him again. ]

For example, [ she says, asking after what precisely Aristos thinks Eames is capable of that Arthur isn't. One of her eyebrows lifts before he can answer, interjecting:] Besides the obvious, of course.

[ He takes it from her, after a beat's worth of hesitance. Rolling it between his fingers, he treats this one differently -- holds it up to the sun, as if he could peer through it to see the secrets Eames might one day offer him (but not today). Instead of testing its weight he keeps it in the center of his palm, fingers curling around it. ] Yeah? [ And he sounds almost hopeful, as if this is something he can't help but be around Eames. It's a reflex, the way he turns to dry wit, as if keeping himself in check -- maybe he picked that up off Arthur, too. ] In between all those lessons about how to pick people's pockets and keep a good pokerface, right?

[ Aristos throws the stone into the horizon. It travels in a higher arc and wider than his previous throws, and he thinks he maybe even hears it land among the ruins. (If this had been reality, Aristos would have pocketed and kept it -- no question, no matter what Eames thought about sentimentality. But it wasn't reality, and he was determined to never forget it.) ]

I don't think Arthur can create, [ he says after a beat, finally turning his gaze on her. ] Not like you can.