Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story are the property of Stephen Spielberg, George Lucas, and their marvelous affiliates at Lucasfilm and Paramount. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.
Summary: A family's more than blood and bones. Part 10: It's not the years, honey: it's the mileage.
Author's Notes: To my beta – thank you. It's amazing what an extra pair of eyes can do for a piece and yours definitely worked wonders on mine. Your comments also made my day. I'm glad you enjoyed it! Thank you!
With regards to the chapter itself, I'm back to Indy and Marion for this one. Everything else is pretty self-explanatory. Enjoy!
-Hair-
It wasn't the first time Marion had found a gray hair on her head, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. For some reason though, it was the first time a gray hair had ever made her ache a little inside.
She left it where it hung in front of her face, separate from the others that had grown in over the years. It wasn't any different from the lot of them really; still the same, matte gray of a hair that had been slowly overtaking her scalp for the past five years. Yet for some reason, this one felt different. For the first time in her life, Marion was beginning to feel old and not just the regular-old either. Marion felt dowdy, frumpy, dated; the kind of old that occupies a worn piece of clothing or overused antique. That kind of old.
Hands on her hips, she crossed her eyes and stared hard at the hair. Why haven't I felt this way before? she wondered. It wasn't as if she had gotten this way overnight. Then again, wasn't it? She hadn't felt this old yesterday or the day before. Just now. Just right now. Discovering that hair had tipped the scales of her self-esteem and sent her plummeting into the throes of self-pity, and it had all happened so quickly she scarcely had time to reflect on the situation at hand.
Not that there was much to reflect on. This was just another average day-in-the-life-of for Marion Jones. There had been laundry to do, dishes to wash, dinner to plan, groceries to buy, a husband to visit…
Her eyes narrowed. Yes, she thought, a husband to visit – a husband and his brand new secretary!
Marion turned away from the mirror angrily, lowering her eyes from the bright, gray streak in her line of vision. She wasn't a jealous person by nature, neither was she suspicious of her husband's affections for his new associate. Still, the very thought of Catherine Moore, the very notion of her, shook Marion to the core. The statuesque redhead came to represent, in Marion's mind at least, everything she had ever come to loathe in the universe, including that damnable gray hair!
"You must be Mrs. Jones," Catherine had said pleasantly when Marion arrived at her husband's office that afternoon. She rose from her desk like Aphrodite from the ocean, all six-foot-something of her body followed by several inches provided by the stiletto heels of her shoes. She was slender but curvaceous, an enviable silhouette only perfected by the pencil skirt and blouse she wore in her ensemble. She was the type of woman who turned simple tasks into works of art: walking became a dance, standing became a tableau. Catherine Moore was who women wanted to be and men wanted to be with.
"I'm Catherine Moore," she offered her slender, smooth hand to Marion. "I'm your husband's secretary."
For all her self-confidence and unabashed ego, Marion hesitated in that moment. She felt her hands at her sides, old and withered and unclean, and couldn't find the courage to meet Catherine halfway, at least not immediately. Just as the awkwardness of the moment reached a fever pitch, she finally took the woman's tiny hand in hers and gave it a single, stern shake as if she were trying to break it.
Catherine, for her part, was all smiles despite nearly having her hand torn off. "He just walked into a quick meeting with the dean of languages, but I'm sure it won't take long. Would you care to sit and wait?"
Temporarily transfixed on the young woman's face, Marion could only muster a nod at first, but finally managed to communicate that she would wait. Catherine took the liberty of assuring her it shouldn't be more than a few minutes, but by now, Marion wasn't listening. She was too busy wondering just how someone managed to produce something as sickeningly beautiful and nauseatingly charming as the young woman in front of her.
"You must be Mrs. Jones," Marion said to the bathroom floor in a high pitched, nasally squeal of a voice. She smirked dejectedly. "Yep," she nodded, "That's me – Mrs. Jones. All forty-seven, gray-haired years of me."
She turned back to the mirror quickly, facing her reflection with a sigh. In the dark corners of her memory lurked her younger self, a raven-haired beauty of sixteen, maybe seventeen years old. That was the Marion she had always fancied herself to be, even after age and motherhood stripped her of those breasts, those hips, and that body in general. Now, those corners were occupied by a redheaded demon, a slinky, snake-like figure chiding snidely, "Mrs. Jones."
The sound of footsteps on the stairs roused Marion from her thoughts. They were heavy footsteps, thundering, definitely Indy's. Running her hands through her hair several times to hide the offensive gray streak from sight, she exited the bathroom just as her husband disappeared into the bedroom.
"Indy?" she asked the empty hallway. No response. Not the usual salutation she was awarded when the good doctor returned home from a long day at the office. Putting her inner turmoil on the back burner, Marion strode calmly and confidently to the bedroom and, with a soft knock, let herself in.
"Indy?"
His groan was the only response she received. Eyeing his silhouette on the opposite side of the bed curiously, Marion finally realized the source of her husband's anguish. He was sliding his blazer and dress shirt from his shoulders at a snail's pace, arms sluggish and creaking from age.
Guess I'm not the only one time caught up with today, she mused, and slid into the room. Indy winced and grunted, drawing the blazer over his elbow painfully. A ghost of a smile overtook Marion's features as she eased onto the bed next to him.
Now where have I seen this before?
Wrapping her fingers around the collar of his shirt, Marion began to pull. Indiana let out a troubled grunt.
"No," he shook his head with another grunt, "I don't need any help."
"You do," she corrected him and finally managed to pull the clothing free of his body. Trailing her fingertips over the garments lightly, fighting laughter at the irony of the moment, she cast a longing glance back at her husband. "You're not the man I knew twenty years ago."
He looked at her, still wincing. For a split second, she saw him as he had been, dark-haired and dark-eyed with a nine o'clock shadow working its way across his stiff jaw. When Marion blinked, the image yielded to the present, but only so many of the features actually changed with time. He was still the man she fell in love with all those years ago. Why did her reflection have to change so much?
As if he had heard the question, Indy smiled and said, "It's not the years, honey: it's the mileage."
Marion's heart soared under his gaze. It was the same gaze from lifetimes before, back when they were falling in love for the first time, the second time…God, every time. They could be in a crowded room and that gaze would find her and take hold of her. It was Indy's way of saying everything his mouth couldn't; that she was beautiful at any age, and that, beyond words and thoughts, he loved her completely.
She felt her cheeks redden and changed the subject. "How far did you take yourself today?"
"Far enough to reconsider that statement," he winced, shifting uncomfortably on the bed. "I was helping clear out some of the old store rooms."
Something in his spine popped, leaving Indy wincing again. Marion chuckled despite herself and reached for his legs.
Twice in a lifetime, he protested the action. "No, Marion, please…"
"Lie down," she said, heaving his stiff legs onto the bed.
"Look, I don't need a nurse. I just need a minute. Marion…"
"No buts, Jones," she warned.
He glared at her, but his ability to be threatening was diminished by the glasses sitting halfway down his nose.
Marion grinned at her patient. She set his legs onto the bed as gently as she could before sliding towards the head of the bed where she fluffed the nearest available pillow and held it towards him.
"Sit up," she said.
"Marion…"
"Sit up," she said again.
Indy rolled his eyes but conceded. His expression spoke of pain in every measure and volume, and Marion was sure that something else in his spine had popped as he moved. Quick as she could, she slid the other pillow under him and eased him onto it.
"Now," Marion put a hand on her hip, "Where doesn't it hurt?"
"Marion, just leave me alone, please?"
"Here?" she ran a hand over his knee.
"Ow! Yes! I mean no!"
"Well God damn it, Jones, where doesn't it hurt?"
He tried to keep his anger under wraps. He just wanted a minute! Was that too much to ask? Pointing a finger towards his elbow, he announced, "Here!"
Marion leaned forward and kissed the uninjured area tenderly.
Indiana's mind reeled in sudden recognition. He stared into his wife's face, fighting the urge to match her smirk as he lifted a hand and pointed to his brow.
"Here."
Her fingers curled over his glasses, tugging them from his face. Easing herself next to him, Marion placed another delicate kiss by his eye.
Indy thought carefully about the next. He ran a hand over his cheek, ignoring the deep groves time had carved into his skin. "Here's not too bad," he told her. She seemed to agree, and kissed him again.
They stared at each other for a moment, lost in the moment. Indiana raised a hand to his lips.
"Here…"
He never got to finish. Marion's lips brought him to a halt. His final spoken word was swallowed up in the silence of their embrace and vanished, taking the years along with it. With a sigh, Indiana eased into the pillows beneath her and she pulled away, surveying her work. Indiana was resting comfortably underneath her, finally relaxed.
The redheaded figure in her mind faded from view, and Marion knew that, inside and out, she was the one Indy had fallen in love with in the beginning and the only one he wanted in the end. She had years and mileage. How could Catherine Moore compete with that?
"You know, I think the pain's subsiding in a few other places…"
Marion tossed her hair, every black and gray strand of it. She matched her husband's mischievous grin. "I'm all ears, Jones. I'm all ears."
Happy reading everyone!