June 15, 1926

Told you I'm terrible at keeping up with these things – until about three minutes ago, I'd completely forgotten about writing this at all. However! Something entry-worthy and not at all related to the Ark (actually, I could be wrong about that, but hope not!) has actually happened in the Ravenwood household.

Abner's got a new student, somebody or other Jones. Indiana Jones. Weird name. Anyways, he showed up at the house around 4:00 this morning and very rudely woke up everybody – meaning me – with some craziness about a flight from Paris, something about the University of Chicago, and needing a place to crash. Not expecting anyone (especially in the wee hours of the morning and especially not a young, strapping, somewhat bum-like guy), I was, needless to say, careful about letting him in.

First, there was a knock on the door, loud enough to be heard in my room, since it's just off the foyer. Groggy and irritated, but awake enough to be suspicious, I got up and headed out to the entry hall to see what was going on. Leaving the chain on the door, I opened it slightly, enough to ask (and I admit this must have sounded a little strange coming from a nightdress-clad seventeen-year-old girl), "Who are you, and what the hell do you think you're doing on my front step at four in the goddamn morning?"

He seemed a little shaken, but tilted his head slightly, trying to get a better view of the person interrogating him, and replied, "Uh… is this the Ravenwood house? Because I am REALLY sorry if it's not, I mean, I guess I'm sorry if it is too, since it's so early and all, but I had this really long flight from Paris and all the hotels around here are full and I…"

"Okay, okay, I get it," I replied snappishly, no doubt due to the fact that my night's sleep had been somewhat cut off by this kid. He looked down at his feet and I could hear him sigh; however, too unaware and tired to apologize for my tone, I continued, "But who are you? I can't just… you know… let you in."

"Oh. Right. Yeah. Henry Jones, but people call me Indiana. Indy. Because Henry is my dad, not me. Well, and me. Too. Also. It gets really… oh. Sorry. Does Abner live here?" It was obvious that this was the kind of guy who really knew how to get to the point. (that's called sarcasm, for all you "slow" folks out there who are SNOOPING IN MY DIARY)

For having just flown in from Paris, this guy had a lot of energy, or maybe nerves. Maybe he was just overly polite. "It's his house, if that's what you mean," I replied coldly. Let's just say that my dad doesn't exactly spend a lot of time being, you know, a dad. I removed the chain from the door and opened it a little more, trying to get a better look at the chap's shadow and fedora hat-obscured face. Hearing the door open, he looked up again, and the light from inside suddenly – it's hard to think of a good word for it – it just illuminated him. The kid – hardly a kid, he looked mid to late 20s – had these soft grey-blue eyes, tanned skin, and thick brown hair, some of which came in the form of a major 5 o'clock shadow. He kind of looked like a Greek statue, except not as perfect—not chiseled so much as, for lack of a better phrase, roughly hewn, but still smooth and stony if you didn't look too closely. "Jones, was it?" I asked, opening the door a little wider and putting down the large black umbrella I'd been planning on using in self-defense. "You seem alright, I guess. Come on in."

"Thanks a bunch," he took a deep breath, reminding me of my father walking in the door after a long trip to God knows where. "Thanks, uhhh…"

"Marion," I replied and crossed my arms, suddenly and painfully aware of how underdressed I was, in a faded grey nightdress and no shoes. "Marion Ravenwood… you know, not to be rude or anything, but are you an archaeologist? You can't be over…"

"Twenty-seven."

"Oh. Oh, that's nice. Did you go to school at…" I would've said "UoC" if he hadn't cut me off.

"…University of Chicago. Just got my doctorate in archaeology. Your dad was my advisor. I've actually been abroad the past couple years, but…" he trailed off, seeming unable to focus on his story. "Our dads are old friends," he concluded simply.

I nodded, understanding how important networking and legacies are in today's academic world. Excusing myself briefly and awkwardly, I shuffled into my room to grab some sort of robe, settling on the blue satin one (not warm, but very comfortable otherwise) hanging from the bedpost and calling, "Abner's not here right now, actually. He's, uh, off at some conference in Springfield or somewhere for the weekend." Okay, maybe not the best thing to tell the muscular 27-year-old that you just let in to the house, no matter how nice he seems. "You… you want coffee or something?"

There was a momentary pause before he called back, "If it's not imposing, I guess that would be great. Yeah, thank you."

When I re-emerged from my room, several things had changed—Indy had moved into the kitchen, and a beat-up leather jacket and brown fedora hat were now hanging on the coat rack by the front door. I followed him into the predominantly linoleum room and leaned against the doorframe, watching him sit down tiredly, take a look around, and then finally meet my eyes. A shock suddenly ran through me—not the really visible kind that gives you the shivers and makes you do some sort of weird, spastic body roll, but the kind where you suddenly breathe in because you've forgotten how to do it normally, where you feel paralyzed (mostly in the eyes), but in a good way. It was a soft, blue-grey shock. Briefly, I wondered if he'd had a piercing hazel shock… no, no way. I snapped out of it after a few moments of shock absorbing (again, for lack of a better term), blinked, and walked slowly towards the pot of cold coffee sitting on the stove.

"You, uh, okay if I just reheat some stuff from this morning? I mean yesterday morning. Right. Yesterday."

"Course," he replied, and I could've sworn he smiled a little bit under all that exhaustion. Having set the pot up to warm, I sat down from him across the table, looking awkwardly back and forth between him, the coffee pot, and my feet. He was the one to break the silence after about two and a half very long minutes.

"It's nice to meet you, Marion Ravenwood." He stuck out a callused hand, which I took with my own soft, pale one (the very one my dad insists is a writer's hand).

"Likewise, Indiana Jones. I mean that."

As I write this, he's snoring (yeah, believe it, this guy can really snore) in the guest bedroom across the hall from mine.

It's six in the morning now, and I really want to go to bed.

Adios,
Marion