Disclaimer: not mine.
I'm aware that Indiana Jones isn't the angstiest fandom in the world; I'm also aware that the character death within isn't canon. So, I'll respect your dislike if you choose to express it, but don't say I didn't warn you.
Always have the Past
He dies because of you, so it doesn't really matter how or when or that you can still see every detail of it, that you can remember every cut on his body even though you yourself were fairly busy at the time. It doesn't matter that he died at 11:43 on a Tuesday or that he was killed by being pushed over a waterfall. What matters is that he died at the age of 12. What matters is that you let him.
You drag yourself away before letting it hit you; you probably kill a dozen men between the waterfall and the safety of the nearby cave, but you can't remember doing so. Self-preservation kicks in and you go through the motions mechanically, without thinking or feeling. Before you know it the battle is over and you're the only one left alive, from either side.
You don't even think about it much on the plane back to the States, but back in your office, when you call Willie (she'll want to know), it hits you that you'll never say, "Shorty, get our things" again. She offers to fly up to meet you but you refuse politely before hanging up and vomiting into your waste basket. You know what you're going to do next but although you know you need it, you don't relish the thought. It will not be tears of physical pain or the verklempt moment of seeing an adventure end well. You need to cry, you're going to cry; you owe him that much, that little boy who loved you.
You're not sure exactly how to start so you put your head in your hands, then down in your arms. You're breathing harder but nothing is happening. You just feel a bit dizzy and still quite nauseated and you force yourself to think of his face, to remember his eyes, his voice, his smile, but it isn't until you remember striking him that you begin to sob, because he loved you and you scared him. His little body held in your arms, a little body that is pulp now. Formless.
You get up to run but you end up just walking, slowly, quietly, funereally down to the Egyptian room, not for any particular reason besides that you and he never went to Egypt together. You lower yourself, stiff as an old man, onto one of the benches, lean against a pillar, and then the tears come. You want your fedora to push down over your eyes, but you're in Doctor Jones clothes at the moment- academic, exposed and vulnerable.
You wish you'd let Willie come, although it's still for the best that you didn't. She doesn't need to see you like this, and you don't want her to. It goes without saying that you don't like to share your more personal emotions this barefacedly; but even beyond that, this isn't just fear, or anger, or grief cause by another man's actions. This is guilt, this is shame, for a death that you could have prevented and no one can, no one should, prevent you from feeling this fully.
That doesn't mean, though, that you would mind at all a pair of arms around you, warm, soft, comforting; a bosom in which to hide your eyes. It's not something you deserve, though, or something you'll get, so you make do, as usual, fastening your jacket tighter around you and clenching your hands on the hem.
Through tears, your eyes catch a glimpse of the paintings on the pillar; directly in front of you is Tefnut, in her lioness form, a lesser-known goddess of water and rain. Though not a mother goddess in the strictest sense, she's always seemed vaguely maternal to you, and you wonder what interesting things that must say about your psyche. There is something both ironic and appropriate that she is watching your tears and without meaning to, without even wanting to, you begin to feel slightly calmer.
Your sobs redoubling, you rest your forehead back against the cool stone of the pillar and let go, let the gods and the paintings and the dust of the long-dead catch you. An archaeologist is never alone, at the very least, you think; he always has the past.