AN: Another chapter! Wow. I have a vague idea about where this is going, but it's entirely moving on its own so far. Oh, and because I forgot my disclaimer before - I own nothing (pity). BND stands for Bundesnachrichtendienst, which is the German foreign intelligence agency. I know nothing about this agency, so I'm just name-dropping. No offense meant.

This is a short one, and intended to be a filler. School just started and posting will be sporadic, to say the least. I hope it doesn't disappoint!

She's starting to rethink her belief that Arthur is practical. He seems to tend toward the dramatic, even as he tries to stay tangible. It's difficult, Ariadne thinks, for a detective. The occupation itself necessitates dramatics.

"So can you tell me about your case in Paris, or is it hush-hush?"

I'd have to kill you, imaginary-Arthur says with a smirk.

"The BND, and that's really all I can say. Don't ask me how to spell that out."

A tall, willowy stewardess approaches their seats. Ariadne finds herself envying her blonde curls and the silky French accent in her voice.

"Hot towel, mademoiselle, monsieur?"

She senses that Arthur is staring at the stewardess too. She clenches her fists so that the knuckles turn white. "Non, merci."

"I'll have one," Arthur says. "Thank you." He chooses a fluffy white cloth from the tray and waits for the stewardess to move on before unwrapping it.

The towel is stained at the corner with a tiny symbol – a cluster of sunflowers. Van Gogh, Ariadne thinks. She is tempted to say it aloud, but it sounds silly in her head and will likely sound silly in speech. Arthur's fingers caress the painted symbol.

"What's that?"

"A signal. She has reason to believe that a smuggler is on this plane."

"Who?"

"I can't give you the suspect's name, you know that."

"Who's working with you?"

"Adelle, my contact. You saw her earlier."

"You're contact is a stewardess?"

"Yes."

"And you believe her?"

"Ariadne, I trust her with my life."

She wonders how it had happened, how the cold man of calculated risks had managed to take enough of her heart to break it. Do you trust me with my life? Imaginary-Ariadne asks. Imaginary-Arthur is silent. Well, I trust you, continues her imagined self. With my life. I would let you kill me, you know. If you wanted to.

"I can understand that."

"I'm going to have to change seats to look for the suspect," Arthur says.

"Right, maybe I'll see you at Charles De Gaulle."

"No, I'll have to meet the gendarmes." French sounds like it might be Mandarin in Arthur's mouth. Ariadne would be amused, if she isn't so numb at the moment.

"Okay. Next time." She knows, she's grown to be able to tell when she's lying to herself.

"Sure." Arthur waits as Ariadne stands to let him pass. "You can have my window seat, if it makes up for the loss."

Loss of what? Of him. Of course.

"Thanks."

Then he's gone, a clean-cut figure in charcoal grey striding his way down the aisle easily. Ariadne spots a flash of golden hair, and a pale hand grabbing Arthur's risk, drawing him into the safety of the small space between cabins.

Ariadne tries not to look and concetrates on shifting into Arthur's seat, taking her satchel with her.

It smells of fine cologne and hazelnuts, and underneath it all the stark scent of dry-cleaned fabric.

It smells like him.

She curls up a little and refrains from inhaling deep breaths. She's always been an addict. Her vision narrows, and all that's in front of her is the greying material of the seat in front of her, furry and attracting bits of lint.

The iPod rests in her satchel, ignored in favour of conversation with Arthur. She hadn't expected to be ignored in favour of a blonde stewardess. Blonde. Ariadne can't help but smile at the hilarity of it. Ousted by a blonde. Who knew?

"Je repars à zero," Piaf croons in her ears. I start from zero. It's Paris. There are worse places to go to learn how to live and build again. She's soon-to-be blind, but not dead.