Sleep don't visit, so I choke on sun
And the days blur into one
And the backs of my eyes hum with things I've never done
Indy leaned his elbows on the desk, tapping an index finger on the stack of papers before him. The autumn semester had just begun, but he already had a significant backlog of papers to be graded. The longer he read, though, the more the print seemed to blur together. He'd been staring at the same page for the past half hour, red pen clamped between his teeth. His reading glasses were perched on his nose.
Rubbing his knuckles, he scowled deeply, and raised his eyes to the window. Dead leaves were collecting on the sill, and a fine layer of dust coated the blinds. With his current courseload, he had no time to clean. Most days, he finished preparing his lectures with a glass of whiskey at his side, and then fell into a troubled sleep. He never attended the faculty parties, much less hosted events himself.
Nearly a year had passed since his tangle with Smith and Ross. He had regained the weight he'd lost in prison, but the lines of his face had deepened, and his beard was shot with grey. His hands were beginning to stiffen, as if arthritis were setting in. The whole fiasco had been disastrous for his health. Dean Stanforth had wanted him to lead an archeological expedition to Cambodia this semester, but he'd had to pass. His body was finally beginning to wear out.
Reaching out a hand, Indy snatched a button from the surface of his desk, rolling it between his fingers. A few weeks before, he had traveled to his father's home in Ferndale, in order to fix it up a little. He would sell it in the coming spring; he had no use for the property. He had found the prison uniform that Spalko had been wearing when they fled; before disposing of it, he had snipped off a button and slipped it into his pocket. It seemed a strange memento by which to remember her, but he had nothing else.
Indy generally avoided thinking of Spalko, though the events of her death were still seared into his mind. It seemed better to have some solid object, something to stare at when his thoughts became too dark. Trying to clear his head, he ran his thumb over the cold metal, staring at the ceiling.
Jones was half asleep, passed out on the living room couch, when he heard a sound near the door. His eyes flew open, and he fumbled for his glasses. The room was almost completely dark, and the blanket he'd been wrapped in was lying heaped on the floor. Sitting up, he switched on the lap beside him, and then froze in shock and disbelief.
I really have gone nuts, was his first conscious thought, as he ran a hand roughly over his eyes. Spalko herself stood before him, in the flesh, dressed in the faded uniform he knew so well. Her eyes met his, and she smirked slightly.
"Ah, you're awake."
As she moved closer, he noticed that her blouse was missing a button. His mind wouldn't make sense of this observation until much later. He raised his chin, and in a shaking voice, asked, "Spalko?"
"Yes?" She replied drily, crossing her arms over her chest.
Indy stood, and before he could hesitate, closed the gap between them. When he tucked an arm around her, she certainly felt solid, though angular as ever. She returned the embrace with a fierceness that surprised him.
"I thought you were-"
"Death is far less permanent than the living seem to believe. But yes, I am deceased."
"Then how-"
She let a strange sort of smile creep over her face. "Don't ask questions."
He let his head fall against her shoulder, noticing with unease that her body lacked the warmth of the living. Also, she wasn't quite solid. Touching her was like moving through water; there was a slight resistance, but he had the feeling he could walk right through her if he so wished. He shivered involuntarily.
Her fingers closed around his wrist. "…And how are you recovering?"
He grinned weakly, and shrugged his shoulders.
"Why?" She demanded, immediately deciphering the reason for his silence.
"It was traumatic, Spalko. You'd know that better than anyone."
"That is a poor excuse," she snapped, reproachfully eying the whiskey bottle on the table. "You do yourself no good-"
"It's not about what happened to me," he muttered thickly.
"You do me no good, either." She was wearing an expression of reproach. "Now…"
Her fingers traced the edge of his chin, and her face seemed to soften. Leaning forward, she pressed her mouth to his, without her former hesitation. He returned the kiss, and his arm slipped around her waist. Something sparked in his chest, and he felt the heaviness of the past months drain away. When she pulled away, he gave her a gentle sort of smile.
His left pocket felt lighter. Slipping his hand inside, he found the button missing. He had stashed it here a few hours ago, after finishing in his office. Frantically, he rummaged through his pocket for the heavy metal fastener, but found nothing.
"Calm down, Jones." Spalko tapped his shoulder, holding up the button.
He squinted at her.
"I need you to return this," she toyed with the hem of her blouse, "as I have been missing it for several weeks."
The hair on his neck stood up, and he looked at her in disbelief. "But how…"
"None of your concern. Now, I must be off."
"Wait!" He reached out and, in desperation, clamped a hand on her shoulder. "I miss you…"
"Likewise." Her eyes grew soft. "Still, it is for the best. We both would never have made it out alive."
The lamp flickered off then, and he reached over to pull the chain. When the room was again bathed in light, she was gone.
Jones awoke in the morning with a blazing headache and a sour taste in his mouth. Dim light leaked through the curtains opposite the couch, and he could hear the quiet patter of rain on the roof. He slipped a hand into his pocket, unsure of what he would find. But the pocket was empty.
Hey! I wrote this one-shot for Valentine's Day, but I'm not sure how I feel about it. I read Morrison's Beloved this summer, and since then, I've wanted to write a supernatural-type sequel to ACITI. The title and beginning quote are from a song by Radical Face. Tell me what you think! :)