For notes and acknowledgements (aka: the boring bits), see the end of the story please.
3. Coffee and Pansies
Dark and black and gone and dark and cold but I´m outside not in there I´m outside I´m outside I´m OUT.
Stark sat on the floor with his back against his desk staring deeply into the tiny carbuncle he held close to his face that called to him and sang to him and showed him a thousand lifetimes all at once. And it was cold and it was brilliant and it was knowledge but it was not truth for all the voices shouted their own truth and there was no way he could pick one. They were all right and all wrong and so very very lost and he cried without sound his tears simply rolling of his cheeks and he swallowed and he did not know how to help.
He could not even pick one. Not even one. They came to him and slipped around him. There were images of happiness and grief and just life and everything being stolen away by endless time.
Behind it, behind all of it a promise of power. Raw and sweet and so, so very dark but his, only his. Rightfully his. He only had to reach for it.
And he saw towers build and empires stretching and dead comrades come to life and all that he ever could love protected for the small price of a torn soul.
But it was not truth. He had seen truth. Truth was not black. Truth was a frozen blue sky and its song was alien and proud and unwavering. He called to the blue light and remembered it and brought it to the forefront of his mind, let it grow a wall against the darkness he could pull behind. Separate himself.
He wanted to throw it away, the coal in his hand. He could not. He barely managed to turn his opened hand so the stone could slide from his palm and the world came back for him.
"Dear God." Stark whispered , wide-eyed, sweat running from his brow and over his back, tickling and real and human. He pulled up his knees, closed his arms around them like a hiding child and stared down at the black thing next to his feet, mind reeling, ears ringing with a high note he could not shake.
He could not be seen like this. Could not be found like this, meddling like a fool with something that required no electricity or transistors. This thing could not be used. But this thing had to be used. For what if. What if this was the Key to the tomb of the hero?
Slowly, trembling, stark stood , pulling himself up. Jones would be here soon. But all he had to do was reach out, bend over.
"I'm not bending knee to you! Whatever you are- whatever made you- It's not getting me!" Stark's hoarse voice won strength with speaking. He looked for the cup and his letter opener, got on his haunches and with one swift flick of his wrist, shot the stone home. He stood too fast and black spots flickered in and out of his vision and he had to steady himself against the nausea. An odd high note rang inside of him, just at the edge of his hearing, and he shook his head- what really did not help, and he felt bile rising in his throat. He plunked the beaker down and left it, sitting on his desk like something innocent, to quickly go change his sweater.
Some heroes die with a bang. Some do not even get their whimper. Warriors dream of combat and a sword in their hands, blood in their eyes, madly and defiantly grinning at their foe. Soldiers might dream of a blaze of glory and taking as many of those bastards with them as they could. And those who live their life as an adventure and always on the edge, who have survived the judgments of gods and the hells of war, unconceivable drops, poisons, sickness, curses, blast and the sea- Men like that should die for a reason in some grand self-sacrificing act, believing losing their life to be a worthy price for the defeat of the obstacle in their way. Over the top, larger than life.
They are not supposed to die in the study of a friend, waiting for their after-dinner coffees.
When Jones entered Stark's study, he came with a smile on his face, his briefcase in his hand, dressed like a university professor in his tweed and glasses. He found the engineer deconstructing his desklamp, pale faced with shaking hands and that third change of clothes had to be excessive even for a billionaire. Stark did not look up at his entrance, so he remained silent, closed the door and looked around for a chair to pull up. Now Stark seemed to notice him, and waved him closer while he stood himself. He started to speak, hesitantly, trying to keep a tight rein on his composure and almost succeeding.
"So- eh- Yeah well I have this map from the Arctic just above Greenland, and I though, since we have no douser, we could put the stone on a piece of string to make a pendulum of some sort-"
Stark shoveled the stuff on his desk around to make space, turned with a sheath in his hand and started to pull out a map. By now he feared his eardrums had been damaged- perhaps the earlier blood had been indicative of a more serious problem than a mere ruptured blood vessel in his nose. The high note was still there and, although he could hear perfectly, it made it hard for Stark to understand the words said to him.
"You've been thinking about it then." Jones said slowly, frowning a bit and putting down the briefcase.
Stark looked up, looked the doctor in the eye a moment and bowed his head, leaning heavily on his knuckles on the desk.
"I touched it." he blurted.
"You what?"Jones answered, startled.
Stark put his chin out, defiantly. "It fell on the floor. Rolled under here somewhere, and I picked it up. And I just had to look into in- and something looked back."
"Where is it." Jones was all business now. Stark motioned at the desk and Jones picked up the opened cup. "Where is the lid?"
"The lid?" Stark blinked- the sound got really annoying after a while.
"Yes Howard." Jones spoke slowly, as if he thought Stark drunk and uncomprehending while setting the cup down carefully. "The lid. The lid of this cup- the lid you should under no circumstances have removed! Where is it!"
"Must have fallen too."
"You have tried something already haven't you? What exactly did you do- You were sick again weren't you?"
"No- what makes you think that!"
"The shirt!"
"Nosebleed- I looked inside and it hurt." It still did.
Jones had to take a few steadying breaths. "That thing had you crawling on a dirty warehouse floor while you puked your guts out and you thought it was a bright idea to try anything? Not to mention try it alone?"
A spike of white pain burned through his head. Stark felt his temper flare. "And you are the guy with the knowledge and all the answers- so why the hell did you bring me in contact with it in the first place, doctor!"
"Because you asked me!"
"That is no excuse!"
"Howard- I ask you again- what did you do. What did it do to you? And hear yourself talking man- get yourself together!."
Being terribly childish and not giving ad damn, really longing for some aspirin and a drink and not caring in what order or caring mixing medication and liquor might not being a good idea, Stark grabbed the cup and made a swipe in the air so the stone few out in a lazy arc towards Jones.
"See for yourself!"
"Jesus!"
Jones, knowing better than to try and catch, suppressed the instinct to do just that, stepped aside, stumbled over his briefcase, lost his footing and threw out his hands to catch himself. His undressed hand caught the stone right where it had landed, pointy end up. Jones cried out, more of horror than pain and stared at his palm where the carbuncle had imbedded itself in the meaty mound below his thumb.
"Howard…" he said, meekly, almost begging, on his knees holding his bleeding hand up with the other.
That was when Jarvis threw open the door without knocking, having heard noises that seemed like a fight and prepared to defend his employer, tray with coffee and cookies balancing on one hand.
The white hot poker in his mind left only an empty echo of pain the instant Jones hurt himself. In three long strides Stark was at Jones' side and knelt with him, taking Jones' wounded hand in both of his, while Jarvis quickly set his tray aside and stood close in case the doctor should keel over.
"Shall I get a first-aid kit Sir? Or need I call medical assistance?"
Stark did not answer, just looked in the wide eyes of his friend. Jones opened his mouth to scream, but there was no sound. This pupils were blown and his face went terribly red. He made choking sounds as if to speak, but was unable to get the air out of his lungs and Stark turned Jones's hand to pry the damn stone lose. Jones involuntarily pulled away violently, caught in uncontrollable spasms. Before either man holding on to him could effectively help, all muscles in his body tensed, then went limp. Life drained from the wide open eyes and a dark patch spread over the doctor's crotch. Like a marionette with all strings cut.
"Jarvis, call an ambulance!"
"Right away sir."
Stark noticed Jones was breathing still and gently rolled him on his side so the unconscious man would not choke in his own tongue.
The man from the booth across from the study appeared in the doorway, coming towards the racket. He heard the word 'ambulance' saw he could do nothing Stark or Jarvis were not doing already and whipped out his radio, called the patrolling guards and directed them to the front gate to await the medical personnel and guide them to the study. Stark heard him waking and warning other members of the household- but he did not much care. His people knew what they were doing. He took his handkerchief and quickly pulled the stone from Jones' hand, bloodied and slippery even as it was but a small wound. Jones did not even twitch. The bodyguard was looking the other way, into the hall, but Jarvis had seen him do it. Stark did not ask where the first-aid kit had come from that quickly. The footman cleaned and dressed the wound efficiently, giving minor first aid were they had no idea what to do about the major injury.
"The other hand too."
"Sir?"
Stark's voice and eyes were cold. "Redress his other hand. Quickly."
Jarvis obeyed and within moments both Jones's hands were bandaged exactly the same way. His cabin personnel of his jet could bear witness Jones had entered the plane with minor injuries. This had not happened here. Now if they could redirect the medic's attention to the doctor's head and heart, there was a slim chance it would be believed he had received the wounds in his palms at the same time and not some hours apart. Stark nor Jarvis would mention it, Stark would see to that. Later.
The stone in his pocket burned, but that was only his conscience making itself known. Stark moved to close the wide open eyes, but Jarvis stopped him.
"No Sir, the physicians must receive him as we found him."
Stark looked his man in the eye. He was a good man, Jarvis was. He would reward him well for this- and they understood each other.
"As we found him. I'll tell them exactly what happened."
"Pity I missed that. I cannot give any information that might prove helpful. I'm so sorry Sir."
Over the normal din of traffic outside, sirens made themselves known, and came closer.
Howard found out he really was a coward when he had Jarvis make the call to Marian, but he made sure to be at the hospital when she arrived in one of his company cars. She was so very, very beautiful with her dark eyes and dark long hair pulled up in a neat bun and the dignity with which she held herself. Her dress and coat were simple and elegant and the same pale violet that was not her color so it had to be something her Indy liked. Marian walked up to him and held his eye and he knew that he'd be turned to ashes if he looked away now or showed any sign of guilt.
"Where is he?" she asked in a painfully toneless voice, turning from him and allowed a nurse to guide her. Stark followed, his bodyguards, and now Jarvis too, at his heels.
Jones's face lay caught in the center of a web of lines and tubes going in to his nose and mouth. Electrodes were stuck to his temples, wrist, chest. There was a bag with disgusting fluids hanging from the side near his midsection and on the other side of the bed stood a stand with several bags dangling from it for the drip attached to the inside of his elbow. Everybody who neared the bed did that stupid little dance to avoid those. They had tied his tongue to the side of his mouth to allow the tube of the ventilator to go into his throat unobstructed what made him look like an idiot. The heartmonitor gave a healthy amount of slow beeps, for as far as Howard understood anything of medicine. He could probably build a machine like that in his sleep yet never understand the readouts.
Stark had made sure there were flowers.
Marian stood in the doorway of the sickroom a moment, taking it all in. The bed, the flowers on the sideboard, the table and the four chairs near the window. The nurse in her white and blue uniform and sensible shoes a half step behind a neutral looking physician in his white coat over a brown suit. Stethoscope at his throat, clipboard in hand. She went in slowly, ignoring them both. Her fingers trailed over the bandages on Jones's hand, the free skin of his arm while she tilted her head to the side, just looking at his face, and she bent over to whisper something to him and kiss his brow. After a moment she stood, looked over the bed at the physician and asked calmly: "What the bloody fucking hell happened to my husband?"
The physician thank god was one of those men who talked people, not some medical Latin, and answered kindly.
"Misses, Jones. I'm Doctor Reece, and I am the lead physician of the team treating your husband. We think he suffered a massive stroke. We cannot be quite sure, not yet. But it seems most likely there was an obstruction in the brain that blocked the bloodflow and resulted in his collapse."
"When will he wake up?" Marian said in that same neutral voice, while sitting down on the chair next to the bed. She straitened her skirt and took Jones's hand. The physician took a few moments too long to answer and she looked up sharply.
"How massive was this 'stroke'."
"We don't know yet. There are a number of test we will have to perform until we are absolutely sure about the amount of damage done."
A tremor ran through Marian, she pinched her lips, took a deep, steadying breath, clenched her jaws and sucked in air until she relaxed enough to speak. Stark wanted to go to her, put a hand on her shoulder, be there, but a discreet hand on his arm made him spin and he found Jarvis right behind him, giving but one shake of his head. Stark gave a nod, closed his eyes a moment and kept back.
Marian's voice came out strangled.
"Will- he wake up?"
Doctor Reece kept himself as neutral as the beige drapes besides the window. "In cases like this, we, unfortunately, must find it prudent not to be optimistic. I'm very sorry."
Marian made a choked sound and there were tears now, still held back, not yet falling. She sought Jones's face and her fingertips touched his cheek beside the indentation from the respiration tube.
"Indy- "she said in a small voice and this time Stark did not hold back, stepped behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. She did not look up.
"Indy don't do this to me you bastard. I'm going to have to call Mutt home now an you know how he hates being called back. You can't leave me now- not like this- this is stupid. This is not happening. This can't be happening to you."
She looked up at the person offering comfort, turned and her eyes held such fury when she found the billionaire, he involuntarily stepped back. She nodded at the sideboard.
"Are those your flowers?"
"Yes- I," he stumbled, unsure about Marian's change of pace, from tightly held together, to grief to furious- she went too fast for him.
"Take them away."
"But- they are just flowers- I,"
"Indy does not like yellow flowers. And he hates white ones. He likes the pansy's in the garden, did you know? That Indiana Jones likes his silly little purple flowers? Take them away."
"Marian…"
Marian Jones-Ravenwood, with the blazing eyes that had held back the barbaric drunks in her tavern, and the attitude to fight SS spies and Russian soldiers, stood and bared her teeth,
"Get your fucking flowers the hell out of here, Stark- Because I don't want him to wake up to –your- fucking flowers, you jack-ass shitfaced son of a bitch! You did this to him, you hypocrite! I don't know what it was or how it was done, but you did this to him. Because Indiana fucking Jones does not die of something as normal and –inane- as a stroke!"
The fire went out of her as she fell down in the chair again, staring at her Indiana's face, hands in her lap, swaying a little from side to side.
"It just is not supposed to happen this way. Not now- not so soon-"she whimpered, not gracing anybody with even a glance.
Stark took a deep breath, turned, and left. He clenched his fists- He wanted to help, to act- to repair something. But there was no way. He turned to his footman.
"Jarvis- Take away those damn flowers and give them to the nurses- somebody in this hospital will appreciate them. Then, -if- misses Jones would like to avail herself of your company or services, I would like you to stay with her- at least until her son arrives.
"Yes Sir." Jarvis made his little bow to him and Stark left, eyes high and chin up. However angry Marian was with him, however suspicious and quite rightly so, she could easily be dealt with as an intensely desperate grieving soon to be widow looking for answers the medical profession and science in general were helpless to provide. Sooner or later either she or her son- Jones' son, would ask about his hands- but he already had the story in his mind.
Jones did have influential friends, especially in academia. But among his equals, fellow archeologists and historians, were many who thought him a bit crazy and would never believe the stone he held in his breast-pocket could even exist. If there were people who suspected a supernatural cause of Jones' condition, it were either old men in the backward regions of the earth who had once upon a time taken part in the doctor's exploits, or Henry 'Mutt' Jones Jr. And the latter was still a very young man, who in spite of being an inventive and courageous one, had not spend his younger days gathering courage in trenches or dangling from the wings of airplanes, but at playing mechanic and trying to impress the world by looking 'cool'. Mutt was working on his own doctorate in archeology now, but he would never be the man his father was. Had been. Stark would be able to handle him.
And if push came to shove, so would his lawyers.
Stark did not return to the hospital. Marian had sent Jarvis back to him, preferring solitude above any of his, made her own hotel arrangements and simply waited for Mutt to turn up. Stark had Jarvis clean out Jones' room at the mansion and had his suitcase and hat delivered at Marian's hotel.
He studied Jones's notes, retained the information and penned down a summary for his own use. Although he understood the words, he had no real inkling of their meaning. He would be able to ape them though. To sound as if he knew what he was talking about.
Two days into Jones's hospitalization, Jones Jr. found his way to Stark mansion. Stark handed Mutt the briefcase with the notes, the stone in its cup and, together with his regrets, lies. He told the younger man how Stark during the war had come in contact with artifacts that had broadened his mind, had made him believe in the truth behind legends and how he became accepting of the occult. How he in essence had hired Indiana to search for an artifact that could find Captain America. How over the years Jones had provided, but that neither man had succeeded in Stark's goal. How Jones had sent him message of an artifact at the Nevada military base but a few short days ago. How Jones had fallen ill during their search and had blacked out while Stark took the little crate from the mountain of crates. How Jones had hurt his hands in his impatience to open the little box and how he had been fascinated by the stone. How Stark had been willing to use it at the end of a stick or dangling from a rope over a map, and how Jones had been eager to experiment. Stark spoke of leaving the study but for a few moments and returning to find the doctor convulsing on the floor.
Dr. Henry Walton 'Indiana' Jones died on a rainy Tuesday afternoon at half past three without regaining consciousness, officially after suffering a severe stroke in the week leading up to his passing. He died because his kidney's gave out and his body poisoned itself on his medication. The New York Times ran an small obituary on him, but only gave the facts of his academic career. The article did make note of the wildly varied people who were in attendance at the funeral.
Stark had been strongly disinvited to attend.
Mutt was seen wearing Indiana's hat.
Notes and acknowledgements, also called: the boring bits. Read at your own risk.
Paramount Pictures, Marvel Entertainment and Marvel studio's own "Captain America, The First Avenger". Paramount Pictures, Lucasfilm ltd and Steven Spielberg own "Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull", and the other Indy movies I've pilfered.
Somewhere in Greece is a muse laughing her socks off for sending me this story and causing me al the work to write it down, forcing me to take the blame for it but also graciously allowing me the credit.
In 'Captain America, the First Avenger' the Red Scull made a remark about Hitler seeking treasure in the desert, hitting my Indy-alarm button full force. I just HAD to intertwine the tale of my favorite archeologist with the one about my favorite futurist (Tony, not his dad) after that one.
One of the most wonderful things about Marvel is the way they 'play' with their own continuity and throw in an alternate universe every other year or so. I am aware that Dr. Jones' story was continued well into his old age with the television series "The Young Indiana Jones Chronicles". But in the (video/dvd) release of said series they apparently cut out the old Indy who bookended the stories. Well, I thought, if canon can take that liberty, why not me? So should you find things amiss with how they are 'supposed to be' within the continuity of the movie/television-verses, please be kind and assume I'm not some ill informed crazy fan girl that does not know what she's writing about, but that I'm just another proud flag-bearer of the above mentioned honored tradition of alternate realities.
The 'crazy fan girl' denomination on its own however, is acceptable.
