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It only took Eames 45 minutes to get to Chinatown on foot, so he decided to kill a bit of time before meeting Arthur. One hour, he’d said. It wouldn’t do for Eames to be early. That would make him seem too eager.
He ducked into a narrow shop across the street from the dim sum restaurant. He couldn’t see Arthur through the window, but to be honest, he would’ve been surprised if he could. Arthur was on the run, so he’d be seated at the back of the restaurant, if he was smart.
Eames picked up a few items in the shop that he’d been meaning to get—toothbrush, toothpaste, a pack of new socks. He went to reach for a couple of lighters, but his chest tightened, as if reminding him of the promise he’d made to himself earlier to cut back on the cigarettes. Sighing, he reached for a pack of chewing gum instead. He had to start somewhere, he supposed.
As the elderly shopkeeper rung up his purchases, he placed them into the bright yellow tote bag he’d hidden Arthur’s mystery machine in. It was never wise to go walking around advertising that you were carrying something of value—you didn’t tote dirty laundry in a fucking silver case—but especially now that he knew it was a hot commodity it seemed even more prudent to keep it hidden.
Outside the shop, he crammed a stick of gum into his mouth, wincing at the minty-sweet flavor bathing his tongue. God, this was nowhere near as satisfying as a cigarette. He spat it out into the street. Trying to replace cigarettes wasn’t going to work. A different tactic was needed.
He looked at his pocket watch. All right. He could make it through half an hour without having a cigarette. Thirty minutes. He could handle that.
Eames strolled across the street, trying to ignore the fluttering in his stomach. As he entered the small, florescent-lit restaurant, he began looking for Arthur. There were about a half dozen tables, plus a few linoleum booths lining the wall opposite the display case. The place was busy even at this late hour, which was why Eames liked it for clandestine meetings. There were a couple of young punks making out in one booth, their made-up mouths tangled with metal piercings. As he passed by them, Eames wondered if they’d ever gotten stuck like that. Other tables were occupied by club kids, men in stained work coveralls, and even a noisy family of six crammed into a narrow booth. But no Arthur.
Eames was about to get worried when, from the very last booth in the corner, he saw a slight figure in a black hoodie peer out from behind a newspaper. He held Eames’ gaze for a second before picking up his small, white teacup and ducking back behind his paper. Arthur.
Instead of heading straight for the booth, Eames went to the counter to order first—two baked BBQ pork buns, four shumai, two har gow, three fun guo, two sesame balls. Then he thought of Arthur, and how there hadn’t been a single dish on his table. He ordered a few extra.
“Ate before you came?” Eames asked as he slid into the booth with his Styrofoam to-go case full of dumplings. He didn’t even look at Arthur, instead focusing on selecting a pair of chopsticks from the plastic container on the table and pouring some soy sauce into the corner of the open tray. “Be a love and pour me a cuppa, will you?”
Arthur lowered his paper, the dark circles under his eyes and the sallow tint to his skin betraying his weariness. He said nothing as he flipped over one of the teacups stacked on the table and poured Eames a cup of green tea. The herbal smell was soothing, and Eames tapped his crooked pointer finger on the tabletop in thanks. Eames still didn’t look at him as he picked up one of the shumai with his chopsticks, dipped it in the soy sauce, and then crammed it into his mouth.
“You don’t mind if I eat, do you? I’m famished,” Eames said around his mouthful.
“Where’s the case?” Arthur asked, and Eames saw one of his hands slide off the edge of the table. “I have yours down under—”
“Keep your hands on the table, please.” Eames said, as casually as when he’d asked Arthur for tea. Arthur eyed Eames’ hands. One was on his chopsticks. The other was under the table, in his jacket pocket, wrapped around Nash’s gun. Arthur couldn’t see that one, of course, but Eames knew he was smart enough to put the pieces together.
“You first,” Arthur said, suspicion leaking into his voice.
“Nuh uh.” Eames popped a har gow into his mouth. The protein paste inside almost tasted like real shrimp. “You think after your little stunt in the alley, I wouldn’t come armed?”
Arthur’s hands came to rest on the tabletop, his fingers twitching. Eames could practically see him calculating escape routes, attack plans. He was a tactician, this one.
“Not so much fun, is it?” Eames said, letting a hint of mean pleasure edge his words. “Having someone point a gun at you.”
“It’s the second time today.” He didn’t sound afraid. Just tired.
“That makes two of us.”
“Look, I was playing along with your game!” Arthur hissed. “I know enough about replicants to know that they’re not too keen on blade runners, Officer Cobb . I was trying to protect your cover!”
The name stung, even if Eames had used it himself only a few hours before. It was one thing for him to use his deceased partner’s name. It was another to have it thrown back at him.
“You know shit.” Eames growled. “If you’d been a real replicant, you would’ve blown my head off right there.”
“Well, maybe I should’ve!”
They both fell silent, the air between them practically crackling. Finally, Arthur took a long, slow breath, trying to steady himself.
“All right. I’m sorry I pointed the gun at you in the alleyway,” he said. “That what you want to hear?”
“It’s a good start.”
“What else do you want? A fucking medal?”
It was a joke. Eames knew it was a joke. Arthur was trying to diffuse the situation. However, especially after the “Officer Cobb” dig, it just drove the spike of anger in deeper.
“I already have more than enough medals for one lifetime,” Eames said. Including a purple shield for Polk Street. “Each one more meaningless than the last.”
Arthur’s lips tightened, his cheeks coloring. It didn’t take a Voight-Kampff machine to know that he was embarrassed. Finally, he held his hands out in a placating gesture.
“Okay, let’s just finish this then. I have your case. I hope you have mine in that god-awful tote bag. Let’s just make the trade, and you’ll never see me again.”
That was what Eames knew he should do. Just hand over the case and let Arthur disappear into the rainy night. Why the fuck should Eames care about what happened to him out there? He was obviously more than capable of taking care of himself.
Yeah. Which is exactly why he got caught in the first place.
Eames’ anger ebbed. Clumsy though it was, Arthur’s apology for dragging Eames into his mess seemed genuine. It didn’t change the fact, though, that Eames had been dragged into it, and Nash’s angry threat echoed through his mind once more.
“We’ll find you, blade runner! You can’t hide from us!”
“I wish it were that easy,” Eames said, “but I need answers from you. Real answers.”
“Isn’t that all you’ve ever done? Question me?” Arthur snapped.
“No more machines, no more games, no more questions about plays and trains and parents. I need to know who those men were.”
Arthur studied Eames for a long moment. Even though Eames had the upper hand in this scenario, he had the feeling he was being assessed.
“Why?” Arthur asked carefully.
“Your buddies decided to take my interference with your abduction personally.”
“Nash?” Arthur’s eyebrow crooked up.
“The very same. Now, under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t take threats from bleeding men too seriously. But I’m not stupid. Nash is connected, isn’t he? To someone big. Not mafia, not triad. Something even scarier: corporate.”
Arthur said nothing. Eventually, he gave a slight nod. “Yes.”
“So if Nash really did want to follow through on these threats of his—”
“Nash is full of shit,” Arthur interrupted. “He likes to talk big, but he’s low on the totem pole. He’s a moron.”
“Doesn’t take a genius to pull a trigger.” Eames stuffed another dumpling into his mouth without taking his eyes off of Arthur.
Arthur’s lips tightened in frustration. “How’s this then—Nash’s personal vendettas are extremely low priority to his employers. They have limited manpower in this city, so they’ll be focusing their energies on their top priority: me.”
“And why is that, Arthur? You owe them money?”
“I wish it were that simple.”
“So, they catch you, and they’ll forget about me?”
Arthur tensed so quickly Eames thought he was about to leap over the table to throttle him. Eames held his free hand up to calm him.
“Just talking hypotheticals, mate. I’m not a bounty hunter. No need to go into action mode again.” Eames chuckled dryly. “Where did you learn to fight like that, anyway?”
“I took a karate class once,” Arthur snapped.
“Fine, fine,” Eames said, waving off Arthur’s irritation. “Seriously, though. If you succeed in your grand escape plan, or whatever it is you’re trying to pull off, will these men leave me alone?”
“I’m fairly sure, yes.”
“But not one hundred percent sure?”
Arthur tried to hold Eames’ stare. He really did. Then he sighed, his gaze sliding down to study Eames’ dwindling pile of dumplings. “No. I’m sorry.”
“Well. That’s that then.” Eames said. There wasn’t much he could do but keep a watch, and hope that they’d leave him alone. Not the first time he’d drawn the attention of dangerous people, though they’d never been corporate before. Those fuckers scared him.
He noticed how Arthur was staring at the dumplings. He heard a low rumble from the direction of Arthur’s stomach.
“Seriously, if you’re hungry, help yourself,” Eames offered. “Best shumai in the neighborhood. ’cept don’t touch the baked pork buns. Those are mine.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Arthur asked. “One minute you’re threatening me, the next you’re questioning me, the next you’re trying to feed me!” He covered his face in his hands, then raked them back over his head to push down his hood. His hair was wild underneath, having dried under the thick cotton, and it made him look about fifteen years old—scared, exhausted, alone. “I can’t…I can’t do this. Not after today.”
Eames’ chest tightened, and it had nothing to do with his smoking habit. Guilt twisted his stomach, and a pang of sympathy broke through his self-preservation instinct. With a long, exaggerated sigh, he brought his hand up out of his pocket, and very deliberately picked up his teacup and took a long sip. He put his hand down on the scarred linoleum, a silent offering of peace.
Arthur looked at Eames’ empty hands, relief smoothing his features. Then, just as slowly, he selected a pair of chopsticks and picked up one of the shumai.
They ate in silence for a few minutes, and Eames didn’t miss how fast the dumplings disappeared from the pile. Arthur must be hungrier than he let on. He considered offering to order more, but thought better of leaving him alone at the table. He was making progress with Arthur, but he still didn’t trust him.
After polishing off his second pork bun, Eames went to reach for his cigarettes and lighter in his jacket pocket. Arthur stiffened, his eyes locked on Eames’ hands. Though he’d had no intention of going for the gun, Arthur’s look was enough to remind Eames of his earlier pledge—no cigarette for half an hour. He checked his pocket watch. Only 15 minutes had passed. Was that it? He sighed and picked up his paper napkin, twisting it idly.
“So,” Eames said, hoping to distract himself from the itchiness in his fingers. “You have time to swing by Alcatraz while you were running from hitmen?”
“What?” Arthur stared at Eames as if he’d grown a second head.
“Your sweatshirt.” Eames pointed his chopsticks at the “Property of Alcatraz” patch stitched on the breast of Arthur’s hoodie.
“Bought it at one of the tourist shops down the block.”
“Stylish and practical.”
“Better than nothing. They didn’t exactly let me grab my coat when they dragged me out of my office at gunpoint.”
Eames frowned as realization set in. If Arthur was buying clothes off of chintzy tourist stalls, it meant he couldn’t go home to change. He hadn’t ordered himself anything to eat, either, and by the way he scarfed his dinner it wasn’t that he’d already eaten. He couldn’t access his assets. He was broke and on the run.
Not your problem, Eames. You’ve already gotten pulled far enough into this mess.
“How likely is it that your friends will be able to track me down?” Eames asked, trying to push down his swell of sympathy by turning the conversation back to himself and his predicament.
“Fairly, if they’re interested,” Arthur said with a sigh. “Information is like currency to them. Your fake name helped, but even then they saw your face. It’s pretty…unique.”
“Unique?” Eames’ lips curled up into a sly smile. “That really what you think of my face?”
Arthur stuffed another dumpling into his mouth and looked away, giving a shrug. Were Arthur’s cheeks pink?
“Just saying you wouldn’t be hard to pick out of a line up,” Arthur said.
Eames forced his attention back to the matter at hand. He drummed his fingers on the table, thinking. It would not be hard to connect Eames to Dominic Cobb. They’d been partners for five years. All it would take was a little digging through some police records or newspaper clippings and they’d have him. Hopefully, Arthur was right about them not bothering to come after him. Not much he could do, anyway, except stay vigilant.
“Who do they work for?” Eames asked.
“Can’t say.”
Eames gave him an exasperated look.
“I mean it!” Arthur skewered the last sesame ball. “I don’t know the actual name of the company. They use a dummy account for all transactions. It’s part of the system. I just do the job, hand over the information, then on to the next job. No names.”
“And what exactly is it that you do, Arthur?” Eames thought of the odd machine in his bag, the canisters and tubes.
“Won’t say.”
“Fine.” Eames sighed and checked his pocket watch. 20 minutes had passed. He still had ten to go before he could smoke. He tapped his fingers on the table again, trying to distract himself.
“You have somewhere you have to be, don’t let me hold you back,” Arthur said.
“No, it’s...” Eames trailed off, suddenly feeling foolish.
“What?” Arthur studied Eames’ fingers. “Wait. You’re not smoking.”
“Look who’s the fucking detective now.”
Arthur’s face lit up. “You’re actually trying to quit smoking! That’s great!”
Eames’ face burned. “For you, maybe. It’s fucking agony for me.”
“How long have you been trying?”
Eames checked his watch. “Twenty minutes and forty-eight seconds.”
Arthur laughed, a smile spreading across his face. “Good for you. It’s damn hard.”
“How would you know?” Eames tried to snap, but his irritability was blunted by the warmth spreading through his chest. God, Arthur really needed to smile more often.
“I quit five years ago. Had to when I made the jump off-world. No smoking allowed on Mars.”
Incredulousness swept through Eames. “You made it off-world and you came back? Are you mental?”
Arthur’s smile vanished, replaced by a scowl. “Yeah, well, don’t believe everything you read about the colonies.”
Eames’ curiosity was more than piqued, though. He hadn’t spoken to Robert since he’d left, and he didn’t know anyone else who’d gone off planet. Even if he did, the long-distance calling fees would be astronomical.
“Tell me,” Eames said, unable to contain himself, “is the sky really as red as the ads make out? Or is it bullshit?”
Arthur’s brow furrowed. “I wouldn’t know. They never let us above ground.”
That surprised Eames. He knew the majority of the Martian colonies were underground, but he figured they’d have big observation levels to show off the “exotic Martian landscape,” the ads were always going on about.
“No windows?” Eames asked, hating just how disappointed he sounded.
Arthur looked at him with a mix of irritation and pity. “Not ten stories down, no. But I hear the executive levels have spectacular views.”
“Ah.” Eames felt silly. Of course it was just like home, then, with the rich building their castles in the sky while the rest of humanity scrambled over each other like rats in a barrel.
“Look.” Arthur sighed, changing the subject. “As much fun as this is, I really should keep moving.”
“In other words, hand over the case?” Eames forced the corner of his lip up into a smile he didn’t feel.
“Look under the table, and you’ll see yours.”
Eames did as he was instructed, and indeed, there was his silver Voight-Kampff briefcase sitting on the floor. “Is it damaged?”
“It doesn’t look bad from the outside, but I couldn’t get into it to check.”
“Of course you couldn’t. I have the sense to lock it. Unlike someone else at this table.”
“I don’t tell you how to do your job. Don’t tell me how to do mine.” Despite his snappish tone, Eames thought he detected a gleam of humor in his dark eyes. Eames wished suddenly that he had one of the newer-model Voight-Kampff machines. It would’ve given him free license to study the different shades of brown and gold radiating out from that liquid-dark pupil.
“I don’t even know what your job is,” Eames said, a little more defensively than he meant. Were his cheeks hot? Must just be the steamy-warm atmosphere in the restaurant. He hid his face and checked his watch. Five minutes until he could smoke. Bloody hell.
“And it’s safer for you if it stays that way,” Arthur said. It almost sounded like he meant it, too.
Eames looked up, certain he would find Arthur smiling at his little joke. His expression was serious, though, almost a little sad. It tugged at something in Eames, and before he could stop himself he asked, “what are you going to do now?”
Arthur looked away for a second, considering. “Find a way to finish the job.”
“Of course.” Eames chuckled, shaking his head.
“What’s so funny?”
“Of course you’re going to finish the job. Because you’re the world’s most devoted data analyst.”
Arthur gave a little laugh of his own. “Sure. Whatever your little test tells you.”
Eames handed over the yellow tote. He hesitated a second, thinking of the purchases he’d made in the store—toothbrush, toothpaste, socks—and decided that Arthur would need them more tonight.
“You don’t want to keep your bag?” Arthur asked, staring at the garish red panda smiling from the lemon yellow background. “Please?”
“Consider it a parting gift.” Eames waved his hand, as magnanimous as a king bestowing a title. “It’ll help keep you inconspicuous.”
“If you say so.” Arthur peered into the bag cautiously. Eames watched as Arthur rooted around, finding Eames’ purchases. He tried to catch Eames’ eye sideways, but Eames pretended to be absorbed with pulling his own Voight-Kampff case out from under the table. It made a faint rattling sound as he brought it up onto his seat, and he winced. That sounded like an expensive repair.
“Thanks.” Arthur said, and by his earnest tone, Eames knew that he was being thanked for more than just the case.
There, that stupid rush of warmth again. Not that it mattered at all, with Arthur sliding out of the booth and pulling his tote bag over his shoulder. Off he went, to finish this mystery job of his, or get captured trying. Eames wasn’t going to interfere, not after today. He was too old for this shit. Which meant, this was goodbye.
“Take care of yourself, blade runner.” Arthur surprised Eames by holding out his hand.
Eames clasped Arthur’s in his own. His heart did an odd little flip, the sort it hadn’t done in years. For a moment, he just let himself enjoy the warm touch of Arthur’s skin on his own.
“You, too, karate kid.” Eames forced an easy smile, trying not to betray the odd swell of emotion pushing just underneath the exterior of his calm.
Arthur squeezed once, then let go. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, as if thinking better of asking the question on his mind—perhaps the very one Eames was considering.
You know, Arthur, if you don’t have a place to stay tonight…
Arthur turned to go, and got two steps away before turning back to Eames.
“I have to know,” Arthur asked, “why were you there? In the alley?”
Surprise rocked through Eames. Should he tell Arthur about his brilliant plan? How his suspicions had convinced him to spy on Arthur, to try to figure out his con so Eames could bring him in to the police himself? One look into Arthur’s grateful eyes told Eames “no.” That…that would be a secret he would keep to himself.
“I forgot my ashtray in your office,” Eames said lightly. “Which reminds me…” He checked his watch. He could smoke in fifty-two seconds. He pulled out his smokes and lighter. “Time for the final countdown.”
Arthur laughed. It was a genuine, rich sound, one that flowed through Eames like liquor, like sunlight, and Eames couldn’t help but join in. The ashtray was the most ridiculous excuse in the entire fucking world, and they both knew it.
Before Eames knew what was happening, Arthur leaned in, and pressed a hard kiss to his lips, cutting him off mid-laugh. Eames was frozen in disbelief, every thought, every nerve focused on Arthur. Was—was this happening? Yes, those were really Arthur’s lips on his, warm and soft. Eames let out a tiny moan as he drank in the tenderness that Arthur offered, that Eames hadn’t allowed himself to want in years.
Arthur pulled away, then gave Eames a sly smile. “You know, if you had wanted to ask me out, you didn’t have to make up some bullshit excuse about a second Voight-Kampff test.” Arthur chuckled and patted his palm against Eames’ jaw. “Though the coffee was worth it.”
Then, before Eames could compose himself, Arthur turned and strode out of the restaurant, slinging the tote bag over his shoulder. The red panda grinned at Eames from the yellow background as Arthur disappeared into the rainy night.
Eames just sat there for a long moment, trying to piece together what had just happened. Had Arthur meant…? He stared down at his hand, trying to collect his thoughts, when he realized what was missing.
His pack of cigarettes.
Arthur had fucking stolen his cigarettes and lighter.
Eames’s face burned, until he remembered that Arthur didn’t smoke. Had quit smoking, even. Perhaps the gesture wasn’t a theft so much as Arthur’s attempt to encourage Eames’ decision to quit. It wasn’t going to stop Eames from going across the street and buying a new pack of smokes, but it was going to force him to wait a few minutes more. Cute.
As he cleaned up the remains of their shared dinner and headed out of the restaurant, one of the two punks gave Eames a big thumbs up and a metallic grin. Eames snorted and returned it half-heartedly, wishing he was as happy about his “score” as his spiky friend. Eames knew what a goodbye kiss felt like. He’d had far too many in his life. Though, this was the only time it had been both a first and last kiss. That…that was special.
By the time he had a fresh pack of cigarettes and was lighting up his first, it had been a total of thirty-five minutes since the one before. Not bad for a start to quitting. The smoke curled comfortingly in his lungs—but not as sweetly as before. No. He felt…well, guilty. Like he was letting Arthur down. Eames sighed out his exhale, then took a couple more drags before putting the cigarette out unfinished.
Fine, Arthur. You win this one. Happy now?
Eames’ lips tingled, and his entire body warmed. Of course Arthur would be happy.
And for this one, tiny sliver of time, Eames would let himself be, too.