It was cold. Why did she decide to cut her hair in winter?
Ariadne didn’t call him, or even friends she could have in Paris. None of them knew her father anyway. Neither did she. It was just a snowing day at Le Père Lachaise with 5 shadows around a casket, trying to listen the long and unoriginal discourse of a priest. She didn’t cry once.
Arthur job was to know: informations, details, anecdotes, insignificaint chronicles about people he didn’t care. So of course he knew when it was about her. Ariadne’s tiny form stayed still and alone long minutes after they buried him and she heard familiar footsteps getting closer from behind. When was the last time?… 5 or 6 months ago?
A black and warm Ralph Lauren coat met shivering shoulders.
"Can I offer you a hot cup of coffe from you favorite Brasserie?" he whispered.
Her head turned slowly and faced him. He was beautiful with this beard and a soft smile appeared on her lips at the sight of it.
(just a tiny arthur x ariadne ficlet because i’m bored *SORRY FOR AWFUL ENGLISH* :3)