Disclaimer: I have no claim on Inception, lovely thing that it is.

The sun glinted off the gleaming brass fixtures as Ariadne lounged in her seat and lazily watched the world go by. She toed off her shoes, folding her legs up on the seat and spreading a lap blanket haphazardly across them before reaching again for her sketchbook. The compartment was laid out in a manner which she privately thought of as "Hogwarts Express-style" and it was all hers for the duration of the trip. She had a sleeping compartment in another car, which seemed almost shamefully extravagant on a train of this quality, but it was an extravagance she was indulging in regardless. Her fictional great-aunt Mathilde, who had been invented on the spot the first time a classmate inquired about her sudden reversal in fortune, would have approved, Ariadne decided. Mathilde had, after all, been something of an eccentric.

Ariadne glanced down at her sketch, which had unconsciously morphed from that of the magnificent cathedral she'd toured in her last overnight stop to that of an elderly woman with a craggy face and sharp, clever eyes. Grinning to herself, she added a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of the woman's nose. For shame, Aunt Mathilde, Ariadne mused, you should have known better than to venture out so often without a proper hat. Not with that pale French complexion. The one upside that Ariadne had found to being largely without relations was having the luxury to invent them. Great-aunt Mathilde was quickly becoming her favourite branch of the imaginary family tree, and not merely because she'd left her a small fortune in very real currency.

Ariadne glanced up from her sketch as the train lurched slightly, smoothly beginning its deceleration in preparation for arrival at the next station. She set the book aside and stretched her arms out in front of her, wiggling her fingers slightly.

Following her return from Los Angeles four months previous, Ariadne had, for lack of any other ideas, thrown herself into her schoolwork. The architecture degree no longer held the same significance that it had 6 years before, when she'd first started out on the quest which would eventually take her from a foster home in a tiny town in Maine to a prestigious French university, but after the years and literal blood, sweat, and tears she had devoted to the dream, she figured she ought to at least finish the thing. She assumed a return to shared dreaming was somewhere in her future, but since she currently had the youth and funds to take her time and consider her options, she was doing so. Today, she was considering from the comfort of a fabulously appointed locomotive traveling around the French countryside. It wasn't a bad way to spend a summer, all things considered.

The train had come to a full stop. Ariadne glanced out her window at the name of the station, and then fished the well-worn guidebook out of the messenger bag at her feet. Turning to the relevant section, she idly flipped pages. She'd made a general sketch of her proposed journey before embarking on it, and had a good idea of what she wanted to see in any given area, but still found herself turning to the book whenever the train stopped. Just on the off chance that something caught her eye.

By the time the conductor shouted his final warning and the train started up, Ariadne had long since stowed the book away again. In another lifetime she would have disembarked and wandered a little, but this particular trek was about neither the journey nor the destination. It was about taking time to relax and indulge in the occasional nap. Which, she decided, was an excellent idea.

Ariadne wasn't the sort of person who came awake all at once. She tended to wake up in stages, first her ears, then her nose, and then finally her eyes and the rest of her caught up. So by the time she roused herself some two hours later, her brain had already registered that she was no longer on her own in the compartment. But it had also informed her that there was nothing to fear from her unexpected companion. Scent is the strongest of the sense memories, she knew, and she rather thought it would be a good many years before she forgot the sandalwood scent of his cologne. She slowly rolled her shoulders around the crick in her neck and felt a smile creep across her face despite herself. "Hello, Arthur."

The paper in his hands crinkled softly as he folded it. "Hello, Ariadne. Sleep well?"

"Mmmmm," she responded, sitting up and rubbing a hand over her neck absent-mindedly. She turned her head to get a better look at the paper. "La Monde. I'm impressed."

"I do what I can." The paper was folded neatly and placed on the seat next to him, and Ariadne found herself the focus of that particular intense gaze. "I like your train."

"I like your waistcoat." It was not the response he was expecting, and he glanced down at himself reflectively. Ariadne turned to gaze out the window at the darkening sky. "So you found me, I guess."

"Were you trying to hide?"

Ariadne smiled again, slowly, still watching the sky. "No. Did I provide you with a challenge, anyway?"

Arthur's smile in response was also slow, almost reluctant. "You did, at that. You've spent the months since your graduation making a study in unpredictability, it seems."

Ariadne shrugged. "I'm just a girl on a train." She turned away from the window and found his eyes still on her. "Are you hungry?"

He was. They made their way to the dining car. Ariadne consented to let Arthur order for them both, an action she would never have considered taking with anyone else, but this was Arthur. He was the man with all the information, and Ariadne rather thought he'd choose well. As the waiter poured what she knew would be a dry, crisp white wine into their respective glasses, Ariadne pulled her bishop out of her pocket, placed it on the table, and then very gently toppled it. The waiter glanced at her, but knew better than to comment on the often odd behavior of passengers. Being cooped up on a train for days could do strange things to people.

But Ariadne wasn't feeling cooped up. She was feeling rather free, in fact. She smiled into her glass as she sipped the wine and listened to Arthur complete their order in near perfect French. He was, as always, a puzzle. She wasn't usually one to leave a puzzle unsolved, a questioned unasked, or a rock unturned, but found she rather liked Arthur mysterious. He was a maze she enjoyed for the sake of his twists and turns, not despite them. His voice startled her out of her musings, and she realized he was speaking to her.

"I'm sorry, my mind was wandering. Come again?"

His expression remained unchanged. "It must have taken some searching to find a train this beautiful."

She considered him. "Would you believe I walked into Gare de Lyon and found it waiting there?"

"No."

She laughed. "You're right, of course. You're also not the only person who can do a little research. Grad school was good for that, at the very least."

"You've finished your degree, then."

"Thesis finished, presented, and well-received, if Professor Miles can be believed. But I imagine you already knew that."

He felt himself grinning. "What makes you think I'd ask you something I already knew the answer to?"

His grin did odd, leapy things to her insides, but Ariadne sipped her wine and pushed past it. She was making assumptions that only a month ago had seemed unbelievably out of the realm of possibility. Still, she considered, he was the one who had boarded this specific train at a tiny, rural station. He was the one who had stolen a kiss in a dream in a distraction attempt which he had to have known would fail.

"I would never presume to provide an explanation for anything you do, Arthur."

"I'm not as complicated as all that."

"Are you not? You've been keeping tabs on me for purely academic purposes, then."

He sobered, and when he spoke it was at a slightly lowered volume, though they were still the only diners in the car. "What we did, what you did, Ariadne, was something that most dreamers never do. The majority of extractors go their whole careers without seeing a fraction of what you experienced, and you were a novice who shouldn't even have gone under to begin with."

Ariadne's smile was gone, her face unreadable. "So you've just been making sure I haven't gone mad, is that it?" Her voice was soft, that flat tone that was particular to her, but despite the lack of inflection or expression of any kind, Arthur abruptly became aware of the lie he was telling her, as well as those he'd been telling himself since the day Dom had marched her into their warehouse.

Dinner arrived on a shiny silver cart, forestalling any further conversation.