After the Fischer job, Ariadne watches them like a hawk, probably hoping for some huge romantic gesture, but is sorely disappointed when they exchange little more than a handshake at the baggage claim. Eames goes home to his tiny flat in Mombasa, and Arthur goes home to his midsize house in wherever the hell he lives when he's not working, and the team all split off to do their own thing.

That lasts about a week, which was surprising in retrospect — the easy money had been three days. There wasn't a soul on earth (well, maybe Ari, but she was new to the team after all) who would have been surprised when Arthur showed up in Mombasa carrying a metal case for his favorite gun, a bag stuffed with travelers' checks, and a new identity for the summer.

Eames is there to pick him up, of course, he hasn't been paying baggage attendants all over the world for years for nothing. "Hello, Arthur, lovely to see you." Arthur is wearing huge bug-eyed sunglasses, which strikes Eames as the funniest thing he's ever seen. Somehow, though, he swallows the laugh, because the best part of picking Arthur up from the airport is the little dance they'll do until they get home.

"Mr. Eames."

"How was your flight?" Eames takes Arthur's lone checked bag out of his hands, fingers barely brushing. He knows better than to try and take the metal case from Arthur.

"Hell of a flight. Had to subdue a drunk, and had to reassure the attendant that I did in fact have a permit for my gun, oh, seven or eight times. My gun, which was in a locked steel container far away from me, a locked steel container the only key to which I happily checked in the hopes of avoiding that conversation."

"Not like you need a gun to kill anyone anyway, do you?"

Arthur flashes him a grin as they step into the dry heat. "Not I, said the fly."

As they settle into the car, Eames maintains his character. The charade is always fun, and he has no real desire to see it end just yet. "Expect you'll be wanting to clean up at the hotel, then?"

"Hotel?" Arthur looks out the window, watching a storm build in the east. "Ah, well, they were all booked."

"All of them?"

"Yeah, Eames, all of them. Every hotel in Mombasa. Fuck, every hotel in Kenya. All booked. Every single one."

"Pity."

"Yes."

Eames flips a passing motorist two fingers before he responds. "I suppose, if it wouldn't be too objectionable…"

"What's that, Mr. Eames?"

"Well, I do have a spare room in my flat."

"Well," and with that Arthur is clearly, obviously, done playing around, "that would interfere with our strict schedule of fucking whenever we damn well want, now wouldn't it?"

Eames's laughter spills out and he pulls into the parking lot of his apartment. He's still laughing as Arthur pulls him upstairs, as he fumbles with his keys, as Arthur presses their mouths together, hungry and desperate and happy. Eames only stops laughing when they're inside, door locked behind them and bag thrown across the front room and Arthur's lips and teeth on his neck. "Bed?"

"Bed. Fuck, yes, Eames, bed."