A/N I really have no idea where this came from; I don't usually write angstangstangst, but here goes. I don't think I quite know what I'm trying to acheieve with this. I'd love reviews, because when I write angst I'm feeling moody and when I'm feeling moody it's only polite to cheer me up right? Yeah.
It's Indy/Marion, if you squint. But if you want happier fare (beware, shameless plugging ahead), check out my fics At the Beginning and Five Things That Never Happened. Both Indy/Marion, and decidedly happier and not as spontaneous. And by the way, thanks for those who pm-ed me! I would dedicate this to you'all, but it would be perverse. and weird. to dedicate such a fic to you'all when I love you'all so much! And I am trying to update as soon as possible, so sorry to keep you'all waiting! This can whet your appetite (I hope?)
From fanfiction100 challenge, Prompt #25: Cancer.
He never thought it would be him who would sit in that chair (mahogany, slightly frayed around the edges, sagging down slightly as he gingerly rested on it before, apprehensive, oblivious) in this office (cold, white, saturated with foreboding), receiving this news (when any doctor says, "You're sick," with that amount of graveness and an awkward tilt of the head, you can bet it's not the common cold).
Even if he had expected this scenario, he wouldn't have imagined the woman sitting beside him (dark brown hair, dark brown eyes, and the love of his life), the young man (dark black hair greased at the top, dark brown eyes, and his son), flanking him on the other side, breathing in and breathing out with him this same hospital air. And therefore, he supposed he was luckier than most, that this woman loved him enough to give him a third chance, that this young man loved his mother enough to give him so much more.
It was just so ironic. He didn't have to repeat the laundry list of what he had evaded in this sixty-odd years (but just a taste: rolling boulders, ancient curses, aliens, mummies, vampires, faeries, errant telephone lines, blonde women wielding lethal stilettos) and it is killing him (it is, literally) that he is succumbing to a disease, all the cells and tissues and organs of his body losing battle after battle fighting for a lost cause.
They are asking question after question (when did this start developing? How long do I have left? Can it be cured? Eventually, will it hurt?), in clipped voices, shock and hesitance just barely perceptible in them, but the three of them are holding up, keeping themselves together, averting their eyes from each other in fear of what they could possibly see, and the tension, the knowledge is stifling him, unbearable.
He closes his eyes, overwhelmed, and she winds her arms around him; and suddenly he is twenty-seven and a grad student and she is seventeen and his professor's daughter, and they are young and so in love they only see each other and fleeing through life with legs and arms and destinies intertwined. For the moment that is enough.
Review please? It's my first drabble!