DISCLAIMER: I do not own the characters in this story (well, I made up the bartender, and Adam. And no, you CAN'T use them.) But I do not own Indiana Jones as a character, or Shorty. These two characters belong to George Lucas. AND, I know George Lucas never really said what happened to Shorty, but I like to think Indy adopted him. 3 Deal with it.

Shorty sat quietly on the worn oak steps. He had been there for almost an hour, but he was still not calmed enough to go back inside. His face still stung and his heart was beating rapidly. Every time he stood and reached for the door's brass knob, he couldn't bring himself to enter.

From inside the large home, he could hear Indy making his way up the winding staircase. He was actually going to turn in for the night, without even saying anything to Shorty?

The Chinese Teenager stood half-heartedly and tried the door. Sure enough, as he had suspected, Indy had locked it. He always locked up before going to bed, but he knew that his friend was outside...

Shorty descended the steps and walked quietly down the walk. He was still in his jeans and khaki collared-shirt from earlier that day, when he'd been studying at the library. Though the night air was somewhat chilly, he didn't roll down his sleeves.

The road in front of him was deserted, lighted only by the street lights and the barely-visible moon, which was hiding behind large grey clouds.

Shorty kicked at a pebble sullenly and watched as it shot across the street. Not bothering to look both ways, he crossed after it, but did not retrieve it. He continued along the sidewalk on the other side, heading towards town. He looked over his shoulder, just once, and saw that Indy's study room light was still on. If he went back and knocked, the archaeologist would probably let him in. But Shorty walked on, not wanting to destroy his pride further.

The night's blue-black darkness was cut suddenly by the headlights of an approaching automobile. Finally the black car came parallel with the boy and stopped. The driver's head poked out the window curiously. He was young, clean-shaven and looked tired.

"Where ya headed, kid?"

For a moment, Shorty didn't respond. He didn't know this man, and it was foolish to speak to strangers at such an hour, when he was alone. But a stab of rebellion urged him to toss aside common sense. "I dunno... the pub, I guess."

"Oh." The man paused a moment, contemplating. "Well, I just came from there, but I don't mind giving you a ride, if you like. It's not that far."

Shorty knew it was folly, but somehow he didn't care. He nodded and went around to the other side of the car, stepping inside cautiously.

"Isn't it kind of late for a kid your age to be out alone?" his driver asked. He was no doubt simply trying to make polite conversation, but Shorty didn't like being called a 'kid'. He was eighteen, and was at the moment going for twenty-one.

"Nah." He said, running his left hand through his ruffled black hair. "I've been going out this late every night, since I turned drinking-age." Lying was easy. He'd had plenty of practice, since he had started paying rent to Indy in return for staying in his house even after he had become of age. He had to lie every time he came home late or went out early.

Shorty's companion didn't reply, keeping his eyes carefully on the road.

"You say you just came from the pub?" Shorty ventured after a few moments silence.

"Yeah, that's right."

"You must not be drinking much, to be driving this soon after?" The teenager, whatever he didn't care about, did know he didn't want to be riding with a drunk driver.

"Ha, nope. I was just meeting a friend there." He winked then asked curiously, "So, what's your name? I'm Adam. Adam Birch."

"Sho-er, David Jones."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Jones." Adam brought the car to a halt outside the pub's dimly lighted entrance.

"Thanks for the ride!" Shorty called before entering the building. As soon as he entered, he wished he'd chosen a different destination. It was loud, rowdy and rather intimidating. Everywhere he looked, there were girls sitting on the laps of laughing drunk men.

He wove his way through the crowded tables quickly and carefully, stepping up to the counter. He coughed awkwardly and the bartender turned around.

"What'll it be?"

"Um.." Shorty paused. He hadn't really thought about what he wanted, just that he wanted it. "I.. I'll take whatever's cheapest."

The bartender let out a gruff laugh, winked and handed him a small bottle. "There ya're, one cheapo. That'll be one dollar and seventy-five cents."

Shorty handed him the money deftly, nodded and made his way back outside, the laughter and yelling still sounding loudly behind him.

He walked briskly across the street, causing a car to slow suddenly, almost running him over. Ignoring the driver's angry yell after him, he continued along the sidewalk. There was a bridge, about a mile from here, he supposed. He opened the bottle as he walked, a soft pop exploding from it's opening. He took a swig. It smelled terrible and tasted sour, but somehow, he liked it.

By the time Shorty reached the bridge, he was no longer worried, or angry towards Indy. In fact, it seemed an awfully silly argument they'd had. It was only about Willie Scott, and she wasn't that important. Not at all, really. So Indy'd been interested in her again. So what? What did he care if Indy wanted to get married. A commitment, for once.

Shorty sat on the railing of the iron bridge, dangling his legs over it's edge. The water below him was black in the darkness, but it sparkled invitingly. He set the empty glass bottle on the ground beside him and stood up on the railing. If he was going to go for a swim, might as well have some fun first. He began making his way across the railing, balancing rather well for all the beer he'd drunk.

Shorty did not look up when he heard the sound of a motor approaching. What did he care? He'd be over the side long before they arrived. The noise stopped but Shorty didn't. He was almost to the end of the railing. Why not go the rest of the way before jumping?

But before he could he felt two strong arms grab him from behind and yank him roughly off of the cold iron railing. He whipped around but before he could hit his attacker, he felt something heavy and metal hit the crown of his head. He keeled over weakly as an ache crept along his skull.

"Oh, Shorty. You idiot." Indiana Jones swung his captive carefully over his shoulders, carrying him fire-man style back to his motorcycle. "You know I'm sorry, buddy." He muttered, settling his friend carefully on the seat in front of him. He reached around Shorty's limp form and seized the handlebars, driving carefully home.

EXTENSION of this story will be coming out soon. Gimme time! x)