Hey, guys! This is going to be a pretty long fic, so bear with me. This is just a little Arthur/Ariadne fic based off of The Time Traveler's Wife, so if you haven't read that or know the background on it, you'll probably be a little lost. I'll try and answer any questions you might have as best as I can, though! Basically, Arthur is a time traveler, and after their first meeting in his chronology, he begins to time travel back through her life, meeting her at various points. It's pretty hard to explain, but it's basically based a lot off of the book, and if you check out the synopsis of it on wikipedia it might help!

Also, it's my first fic, so hopefully it's not too terrible.

May 15th, 1994. Arthur.

She's six when I see her for the first time – at least, for the first time that isn't the present time. She's small and all gangly limbs and her hair goes past her waist and she's already got one of those damn scarves around her neck, although this one is admittedly more juvenile. It's in that second that I'm extremely grateful for the random shed they've got in their backyard that I managed to find a shirt and ratty jeans in, because I'm sure she would be less than ecstatic if she glanced over and I was naked – I know I probably wouldn't have particularly enjoyed that at six years old. I can't help but smile to myself as I look at her, bent over a pad of paper as she tries to replicate the bird that's sitting on the branch in front of her, but I step on a twig as I take a step closer and the snap frightens the bird. Her head lifts to see who was the cause of the disturbance, and she immediately scrambles backwards, toppling over herself as she does so.

"Whoa, whoa, I'm not gonna hurt you," I tell her in what I hope is a calming voice, about to reach out to help her up, but I think better of it once I see her shrinking further away and I take a step back instead. I offer her a small smile as she narrows her eyes at me, looking very much like a skittish deer who's about to bolt.

"I'm not allowed to talk to strangers," she says matter-of-factly, peeking at me from behind her curtain of hair uncertainly. She stands and awkwardly shifts her weight between her feet, chewing on her lip. I can tell she's intrigued, but I don't press her. I don't want her to run away. That would defeat the purpose.

"I'm Arthur," I offer instead, taking a cautious step towards her, pleased when she doesn't back away. She's rooted to her spot, still letting her hair shield her eyes so I can't tell if she's looking directly at me or not, and I slip my hands into the pockets of my trousers.

"So?"

"So, that means I'm not a stranger anymore."

This stumps her and she lets out an exasperated sigh. Her hands are cocked on her hips after a minute, and she's tilting her head with a frustrated look on her face. Her nose is crinkled and I almost chuckle, but I don't.

"That means you can talk to me now."

"Are you going to kidnap me or what?" she asks, letting out a defeated huff. I blink a few times, a little astounded at her comment, but I manage to recover fairly quickly.

"Do I look like a kidnapper to you?" I ask her, smiling gently and tilting my head to the side. I decide now isn't the time to move closer.

She reaches down to pick up her fallen pad of paper, clutching it to her chest before standing to study me. "It could be a trick, you know," she says with a shrug of her shoulders. "A part of the charade. I don't know how weirdos minds work," she declares, though she doesn't move away from me. That must be a good sign.

"I just want to talk to you," I tell her with a chuckle, running a hand over my hair, though it does nothing considering how carefully it's slicked down. "Maybe, I don't know, get your name. See what you're drawing."

She hesitates, somewhere between taking a step closer and charging back to her house, and I can see the flicker of indecision in her eyes.

"I'm a good guy, I swear. Like Batman."

This makes her giggle, and she moves to sit on the ground a few paces from me, looking up at me expectantly. I vaguely think about the fact that I'm going to get dirt on my pants, but I throw caution to the wind and join her, waiting patiently for her to speak.

"My name's Ariadne," she tells me slowly, even though I already know. She peeks up at me briefly with a tiny smile before her cheeks flush and she glances back down at the pad she's cradling in her lap. "It's silliness, really," she offers as she flips it open to the last page. It's a quick, sloppy sketch of the bird I frightened earlier, but it's nonetheless advanced for a six year old. I glance up to see her watching me expectantly, her lips twisting into an uncertain grimace.

"It's beautiful," I tell her earnestly, and she beams, glancing back down at the pad, which I take as an invitation to flip back. It's got dozens of little drawings – some of birds, some of the cat I know she got for her fifth birthday, and some are designs for what looks like a castle made out of cake and icing. "You've got a talent, you know," I say off-handedly, stopping on a quick little drawing of a cabin that looks particularly familiar. "You should build this one day."

"I can't, I'm going to be a princess," she informs me, scoffing at my idea. It amazes me that someone as utterly boyish and as unconcerned with appearances as she is could have ever wanted to be a princess, and I can't contain my grin. She grins back at me, looking altogether unsure of what we're smiling about, but not particularly caring.

"Princesses can have jobs, you know," I explain slowly. "You'll like this cabin in, say, 17 years," I tell her with a nod of my head, and her eyebrows knit together.

"How do you know what I'll like in 17 years?"

"I just do."

This explanation doesn't satisfy her, but I can't tell her more. She's only six, I have to remind myself. She wouldn't understand. And in a few seconds, I can tell that I'm about to get pulled away again, probably yanked back to the present – which I would be perfectly fine with, considering she was making me waffles when I left – and I slowly stand up.

"Can you do something for me, Ari?" I ask her, and she doesn't answer right away. It's like she's trying to gauge whether or not she should answer, and she finally lets out an annoyed sigh and stands.

"I guess so."

"Hand me your pad."

She hesitates for a flicker of a second before extending it towards me, and I flip to the first blank page I can find. In neat, clear handwriting, I print DECEMBER 1ST, 1995. I hand it back to her, and she frowns.

"I don't understand."

"Just remember it, okay? And, hey, if you wouldn't mind bringing a pair of clothes with you and maybe leaving them at the edge of your yard, that'd help me out a lot."

"Why?"

"Would 'because I said so' satisfy you?"

"No."

I'm about to laugh and tell her that's too bad, but I'm already gone.