Within twenty-four hours, Yusuf is back in Mombasa, and he's so grateful that he could kiss the pavement. It's sprawling and it's crowded and it's dirty, but it's his city, and he breathes a little easier, being home.
He doesn't relish the idea of going back into the field any time soon; with his and Cobb's share of the Fischer job, he may never have to again. Maybe he'll set himself up with videoconferencing and private couriers for his formulas, just to keep his hand in.
(He wonders if his cat missed him. He knows the dreamers didn't.)
Robert Fischer adjusts his tie, clearing his throat. He's been in the public eye for his entire life, even moreso these last few months, but he still hates this part. He takes a breath and pulls the microphone towards him, and the press conference begins.
His godfather stands somewhere in the back of the room, and Robert can feel his disapproval looming, even though he can't see his face.
(Robert doesn't call him Uncle Peter anymore.)
Arthur drinks half a bottle of Jack Daniels with a can of Coke and passes out in front of a four hour marathon of Bridezillas.
In the morning he gets up, takes a shower, puts on a fresh suit, and tells no one.
(He doesn't remember calling Eames at three a.m. and going on for twenty uninterrupted minutes about the wonders of bespoke tailoring; Eames is waiting until the perfect moment to torment him about it.)
Eames and Ariadne fuck, just once. They don't even make it out of the airport; he just bends her over the sink in one of the family restrooms and has at her, biting at her shoulderblade as he pumps in and out of her. Ariadne watches them in the mirror, watches herself coming apart underneath him, and she doesn't need her bishop to know it's real.
When they're finished and ready to leave, he winks at her and says, "Until next time, dearest," and she knows, without a doubt, that it will never happen again.
Saito stands in front of his mirror for half an hour, trying to convince himself that the person in the mirror is really him.
His reflection looks like a photograph, like something found in the back of a drawer or between the pages of a disused book. It seems like it should be worn around the edges; it should fade to sepia as he watches, lines appearing haphazardly across his features, the color draining until he's old and wrinkled and pale.
He slaps himself lightly in the face, shaking his head. Whoever he is, he's got work to do.
(The rich get richer.)
While Dom is still busy with the children, Miles plucks the top off the table. Only he will ever know what became of it.
(Dom never thinks about it, not even for an instant. He never dreams again.)