Dear Marion,
Too formal....
Dear You,
Too elusive....
Hi,
Too blunt.....
Hello there,
Jesus, why can't I just pick a bloody letter opener?
Indiana Jones dragged a hand across his face, blinking back hours of sleep that he had been putting off for far too long. Not that it was he himself that didn't want to sleep. It was all his damned conscience, and the fact that he was just too wired to even attempt to sleep. With a ragged, frustrated sigh he bent back over the piece of paper he had just torn out of his notebook.
Marion,
It was a good start to a letter, he told himself. Simple, and to the point. He scrawled the date in the corner of the letter. He paused for a minute, pen poised just below her name. Tracing every letter of it with his eyes, he tried to put what was in mind into words. The trouble was, his bloody feelings were as discreet and inexplicable as ever.
I'm so sorry.
He felt like he was back in grade school again, passing notes with the girl next to him and apologizing for pulling on her braids. He sighed again and shifted in his chair, trying to be as quiet as possible. He was so tired. Where was the damn coffee cart when he needed it? Glancing at his watch, he muttered a curse when he saw it was three in the morning. He had to be the only one awake on the train by now.
But he knew that sleep would be impossible without seeing that imploring, green eyed stare in his head. She was haunting him, making him feel guilty for what he did as only she could.
It's not as if I wanted to leave, you know that, right? Hell, if I had a choice in the matter I would never leave you and your dad.
He considered crossing out the 'your dad' part, seeing as Abner Ravenwood was sort of the one who had made him go in the first place, but then chose to leave it.
I miss you.
The three words didn't seem to sum up a quarter of the strange clenching feeling he got in his chest whenever he thought of her. He'd only left Chicago University three days ago and yet he was not able to get her out of his mind, unlike the rest of the other girls he had ever known.
But Marion,
He winced, because it almost hurt to write her name. This was about as low as a man could go, to tell the truth, he said to himself. Pleading and groveling on ones feet is as desperate as a man will ever get.
You have to understand, I didn't leave because of you, or because of me. It's an opportunity for me to learn so much more then I already know. Please don't think it was something you said or did, trust me.
He had to smile at that one, because he honestly could not remember the last time Marion Ravenwood did something to upset him terribly. Even during those days when they did nothing but scream at each other for hours on end, he had no reason to be irked by the angry flush in her cheeks, or by the way she often bit the inside of her cheek when she was designing some way of trying to piss him off more.
No, he told himself, Marion was the one that never did wrong. No matter how brashly she acted, or how many times she swore, or how many days she decided to glare and not speak. There was always something about her that kept him on his toes, constantly entertained.
Being with you; that was and is the easiest thing to do for me. Yes Marion, even easier than looking incredibly attractive in a Fedora.
He remembered that all too clearly, the day Marion had suddenly demanded to him, "How is it so easy for you to look so goddamn attractive in that hat?"
He wasn't lying when he said it was easy to be with her. He couldn't even describe how great it was to hold her, how naturally the shape of her body seemed to just melt into his whenever they embraced.
But the thing is, the hardest thing for me is not. Being with you, I mean.
Jones almost stopped writing and threw the pen down in frustration. This was a very, very, VERY bad idea, not to mention idiotic and pointless. Wooing girls with a simple look was a piece of cake for him, but romancing one of the most tough-as-nails spitfires in the world by writing a letter? He didn't care what Harold Oxley 'knew' about winning a woman's heart, because this was very ridiculous. The stuffy British professor had as much romantic experience as a wooden spoon, Indy thought darkly.
But what else was there to do? He couldn't go back, not without getting yelled at by both Abner and Marion, even if for different reasons. Indy ran a hand through his hair and scrutinized the paper, scratched out sentences and all.
There were a lot of things I never said to you. Some of them I'm glad I kept to myself, while others...well, I should have told you a long time ago.
He scanned it quickly, making sure every written word was honest. Rain danced across the windows outside, light and sharp reminders of things he didn't want to remember.
Do you remember the time you asked me what my favorite color is and I told you it was blue? I lied. My favorite color is green, the exact same color as your eyes.
Another truth, but he knew that she'd be reading this part of the letter and be thinking, "What the hell is he talking about? Why the hell does this matter?"
You're probably furious with me, and wondering what the hell I'm blathering on about. I can practically see you cussing me out under your breath every time someone mentions my name, or throwing out that journal I gave you for your last birthday.
Yeah, he could see her doing both those things very easily.
But I digress.
Do you remember that other time you told me you...loved me in the wine cellar we hid in to get a few minutes privacy? I didn't answer, but just continued kissing you.
He remembered the time most above all others spent with her, the way her hooded lids had looked as he kissed her in that dimly lit, pungent wine cellar, the earnest tone in her voice when she said, "I love you, Jones", that at the time had made his blood freeze in panic.
He had never told another woman he loved her, but maybe that had been because he had never met a woman that had remained in his life for as long as Marion had. There was never a woman before her who had ever punched him when he told her she looked funny in her men's clothing, nor was there a woman with the lightest of freckles and the greenest of eyes. At the time, right after she told him that she loved him, he didn't have anything to say.
Saying you scared the shit out of me at that moment is a bit of an understatement. You were so straightforward, and I was so punch-drunk on your kisses that I didn't know what I could possibly say back, because I didn't know what I even wanted to say.
The truth is, I should have said something. I should have said that phrase back to you without any hesitation.
His pen was flying fast, and a dull sense of adrenaline thrummed through him as he wrote, something her hadn't felt in a full three days.
Because it's true.
He would have to write it, and he knew it. It felt like carrying an anvil while walking a tightrope. But honestly, there couldn't be another way to describe the way he felt, that clenching of his stomach when he thought of her, the pleasant thrill whenever she had touched him or laughed at one of his very bad jokes. To him, there was no more denying it.
I love you.
He didn't smile at the sentence as he thought he would. And he most certainly didn't feel better after admitting it, because it only made this situation crappier and harder to get through.
And now, he had to romance her.
I love you so much that you're all I can think about. The time I've spent with you, the countless moments where the only contact we could make was a single glance across the room.
And then after that glance, he'd find himself excusing himself from the room and following her into the next room, which always turned out to be the private, quiet library, where no one would was watching and he could kiss her feverishly like there was no tomorrow.
Jones wasn't sure how he had gone from there (secretive make out sessions in the corner of the library) to this, writing a letter that was useless.
I love that you have a deadly fear of cockroaches, even though you've never seen one. I love that you have a dance routine to do in your room every time it rains. I love that you can't stand the taste of coffee, but you could spend all day smelling it. I love how you'd rather spend your days blowing spitballs at dinner guests as opposed to going out dancing like other girls your age.
A flood of memories swamped his head; flash after flash of experiences with her playing like a movie he had seen one too many times. He didn't dare stop writing. There was too much to say.
I know you're mad at me, and probably want to nothing else but punch my lights out, and I know you never want to see me again. That's fine. I just wanted to tell you. I think you have a right to know how I feel about you.
I love you.
There it was again, that ominous sounding phrase that terrified him more than snakes. He knew she'd never accept it, he knew she'd never forget what he did to her, but telling her was the only he could let her know he was sorry.
This is a pathetic and corny attempt at winning you over, you may think. While the part about this being corny may be more than true, I'm not trying to win you over again. Because I'm sure that you won't want anything to do with me once this gets to you.
He closed his eyes after finishing this sentence, because there was a resolution in it that made him feel almost sick. She wouldn't want him back. She would have moved on and completely forgotten, because she was the kind of girl that would do that. Used to being forgotten, so she forgot others back.
But there was hope, right? Some glimmer that said she just might love him back, no matter what shit he put her through?
But if you change your mind, if you somehow can bring yourself to think of me without getting the urge to hit something, well, you know where to find me by the return address on the envelope.
Write to me, you may be surprised to find I'll write you back.
Having her write to him would be more than enough. Sure, it wasn't seeing her, and it most certainly wasn't being with her. But hearing her own voice in the form of inked words would be enough.
If only he could be sure she would write.
It's raining where I am right now; pouring so hard that it's been keeping me awake. I'm somewhere in Massachusetts, headed towards New York.
Okay, that was a lie.
The rain isn't the only thing keeping me awake, because I also have a certain green-eyed friend on my mind.
Yeah, believe it, sweetheart, because I'm talking about you.
Love always,
Indy
P.S.- Do you think they'll kick me off the train if I start doing your rain dance in the middle of the night?
He read the letter over, down to the last punctuation mark. It wasn't perfect; he knew that no matter how many times he rewrote it, it never would be.
He was about to put it in the already postmarked envelope, but stopped, staring at the badly written adaption of what he felt about Marion Ravenwood on that little piece notebook with the ragged edges where he tore it out.
She'd never believe it, he told himself. Stubborn as always, she'd never even open it. She'd either tear it to pieces or throw it into the fire, because what use were words coming from a man who ran away without saying goodbye?
Without a second thought, he reached over, opened his train compartment window and tossed the letter outside, watching the rain soak through the paper and make the ink run as it blew away. He leaned back, tucking his hat over his tired eyes and trying to get to sleep, knowing his attempts were fruitless, but still trying.
There are many things in life that people never get to say, because they always throw away the chances to do so. That letter, with the over dramatic love confessions and everything else, was one of those chances. And Indiana Jones had tossed it into the rain, allowing nature to swallow it whole without a trace.
It was a letter never sent, yet it was one that the recipient would have read and cherished all the same.
And he didn't even know it.
HAPPY 2009! Haha, you didn't think I'd be giving you anything, did you? It actually wasn't the plan, what with my one-month hiatus and all, but that muse of mine told me to write this, and I just couldn't resist.
Please review, because that is my favoritist thing. And feel free to flame this story, because it's very second rate. I was in no mood to write good material.
Oh, AND GO TO MY PROFILE FOR IMPORTANT INFORMATION THAT NEEDS TO BE KNOWN!
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