July 7, 1926, 6 a.m.

Jump start! No intro! Let's get to the story! Yay!

Let me take you back to about 5:30 this morning. Thanks to one of my dad's early morning appearances yesterday and a night spent thinking into the wee hours of the morning, I would've preferred to spend a summer day such as this one in bed until I couldn't physically stand not to move. But for some reason, I woke up this morning extremely suddenly, as if an alarm had gone off in my head… but an alarm that I couldn't hear? I dunno, it was/is weird. Outside, it's still stormy as we ever see it around here—dark, thick fog, rain pelting the window and whatnot, and I realize that I'm still dressed in the clothes I was wearing last night when I fell asleep at my desk: dark grey flannel boxers, a white undershirt, and a now somewhat wrinkled maroon pullover (gooooo UoC!). Checking briefly in the mirror to make sure that I didn't look like the living dead, I headed out into the living room, which is at the far end of the hall, through the kitchen. Our house is a little confusing; I won't waste time trying to explain that part of it.

So I'm expecting to be alone in the house, as usual, dad and Indiana off at the Field or the university or somewhere manly and archaic, and then I realize that the living room is glowing. In retrospect, it shouldn't have taken me as long as it did to figure out there was a fire going. (It was early! Cut a girl some slack.)

"Hello? Dad?" There was a shuffling of papers, and I turned the corner into the den just in time to see Indy stuffing a few pieces of loose-leaf paper under the armchair he'd obviously been writing in. Unaware that I'd seen him do so, Indy rearranged himself to look superficially casual, dressed in PJ's and a bathrobe with a cup of coffee in hand. The air tightened in my lungs—it was the first time we'd even been alone in the same room together since that late-night stairway conversation, which of course didn't help the situation at all. Unless you consider keeping us not only from arguing, but also from speaking and interacting altogether, helpful. Which I don't.

"Marion! Hey…" he exclaimed awkwardly, shifting. "What's, uh… what's got you up so early, huh?"

"God only knows," I rolled my eyes, trying hard to remain casual, taking a seat in the chair closest to the flames and deliberately failing to mention that I'd caught him in the act of… something or other. "Some psycho internal alarm clock out to ruin my sleep patterns, I guess. Where's Abner?"

"University board meeting. Said he's been keeping me too busy and that I should take the day off or something."

"Wow… beautiful weather for a day off, isn't it?" I asked sardonically and lifted an eyebrow, a perfectly timed lightning flash going off outside the window. There was a deep silence for somewhere around 10 seconds, and for the first time in a long time, I couldn't feel his eyes on me. Not at all. Not that I'd been looking to check, but I just knew they weren't. I knew. "Seven days," I said, turning to look squarely at him.

"What?"

"It's been seven days since we've had a real, decent, or in our case painfully awkward conversation, Indiana Jones, and quite frankly I'm sick of it. You are the first ever guest in this house under the age of 40, and I'm not going to pass up that kind of opportunity." Plus, I really miss talking to you, my inner voice urged me to say, but I think he knew anyways.

"You're right," he replied sheepishly. "I wouldn't want to deprive you of such honorable, exciting company." I smirked and turned towards the fire once more, hypnotized by its random rhythms and shifts. Fire's pretty. Anybody else catch the irony in my saying that?

"Likewise, Jones." I glanced up and caught his eye, which I noticed was almost bright again. It was funny… it feels like we've nearly forgotten what carefree normalcy feels like. How weird is that? It's not right. Within a few seconds, the reality of our position set in and he averted his eyes from mine sharply.

"Mare," said Indy quietly, and I winced at his use of such a childish nickname. "Marion," he repeated. "What are you trying to do? If the past couple weeks aren't proof enough, take my word for it: we can't be friends."

Needless to say, that threw me off more than a little.

"Of course we can be!" I argued, fighting the temptation to pout. "Listen, Indiana, I figure we're at a point where there's no harm in being straightforward, am I right?"

Whether or not he actually agreed, his apprehensive nod was enough to prompt me to continue.

"'Friends is worth a shot," I stated plainly. "The way things are going, it's not like we have much to lose if it doesn't work, you know?" Even as I said it, I knew how untrue it all was, and Indy knew it too—a million and one things could go wrong and cost us everything. But I was desperately clinging to whatever reason I could find that might keep him here another day.

"It's not going to work!" he exclaimed, throwing his hands up in a move characteristic to most of his stressful moments. I shrank back into the chair a little, pulling my knees up and hugging them to my chest. A lump formed in my throat, and even though I knew for several reasons that crying wasn't an option, it was mighty alluring. Maybe he could tell, because suddenly the frustration subsided and he added, "You've gotta understand, Marion, I… I… you have no idea how difficult this is." LAME.

This time, I was the one to nod, though now I was staring intently out the window. I wondered if the brutal weather had shown up just for us, but then my thoughts drifted to the piece of paper he'd been so keen to hide when he realized I was awake.

"No, Indy, I don't understand." It sounded so naïve and simplistic, but I refused to believe that he wasn't even willing to try. "You're one of the best people I know, and your all-or-nothing attitude is…" I took a moment to find the word, "…disappointing."

He looked a little affronted right then, lifting his eyebrows slightly and shuffling in the armchair he'd snuggled (please never let me use that word again) into. Intent on having the last word, as usual, I took his bewildered silence as an opportunity to stand as gracefully as possible and exit the room calmly, even though my insides were thumping wildly and trying not to rip themselves to pieces in panic.

Like I said, it was early, so I went back to bed and dreamed about a sunny day.

Which is funny, because my favorite weather is rain.

July 7, 1926, 2 p.m.

That's ridiculous. I had no idea how tired until I actually was until, still struggling with the concept of crawling out of a very comfortable feather bed, I opened one eye to check the wall clock and realized it was 1:30 in the afternoon. It was a little scary.

Hauling myself up 'n' at 'em for the second time today, I didn't even bother checking the mirror this time, instead following my stomach in a virtual bee-line towards the kitchen. Most mornings, I'd wake up bright and early to find Indy at the stove, cooking eggs or bacon or something else delicious, a pleasant smile on his face. Today, however, the room was oddly still, except for the incessant thunder, pelting rain, and infamous Chicago wind outside. I shivered and pulling my bathrobe from the hook on the door, wrapping it quickly around myself to try and stand up to the cold. Not really in the mood to exert effort on cooking (like I ever am?), I took a roll from the breadbox, some olive oil from the cabinet, a banana, and a glass of chilled milk from the ice box for what would be a meager combination of lunch and breakfast. It was pathetic—he's only been here a month, and I already depend on Indy, even if just for his nutritionally balanced cooking.

I settled myself into one of the cold metal chairs at the kitchen table, and just as I was about to bite hungrily into the roll, who should walk in?

Uh, well, I'll give you three guesses, and here are a couple clues to boot: he's about 6' 2" with blue-grey eyes, dirty blonde hair, and a smile that could charm the socks off a snake. Or, more appropriately, the wits from a besotted and befuddled teenage girl.

The weirdest thing, too: he was all cheery-eyed and smirky, a lot like when we first met, and it threw me for a real loop.

"Let me guess," I teased, trying to take advantage of this good mood. "You won the lottery? That or… wait! Wait! Don't tell me… oh, that or you know something I don't and are feeling annoyingly smug about it."

Jackpot. Of course.

The smirk turned into a playful grin as he gracefully took over the chair across from me, sitting backwards on it (like, the chair was facing away from the table but he was facing the table).

"Christ, Jones, what is up with you?" I was genuinely curious at this point, especially after the way I'd just up and walked out of our last confrontation.

"Let me buy you a drink," he suggested, and I just stared dumbly. "You know, a drink?"

The look of utter shock on my face must've said it all. I started to open my mouth to ask if he was flat-out crazy, but he interrupted with a wave of his hand and a quick,

"Don't even think about it, I already made reservations for 7 o'clock this evening."

"I knew it! You are crazy, Indiana Jones." He played dumb, acted like he had no idea how ridiculous this was. "Mr. We-can't-be-friends suddenly wants to buy me a drink? And he thinks I'm going to say yes?" Well, of course I wanted to say yes, but whether or not I was going to was a different matter entirely.

"I'm afraid you have no choice in the matter, Marion," he said matter-of-factly, but with a short glance at his hands, I could immediately tell that they were shaking a little behind the confident façade. That was a little comforting, but then he suddenly stood up from the chair, spun around on the linoleum, and sauntered (there's no other word for it!) away towards his room, leaving me dumbfounded in my pajamas, eating an un-toasted roll with olive oil, a banana, and milk.

He never even offered to cook.

July 8, 1926, 2:15 a.m.

This will without a doubt sound really stupid to anyone not in my position, but after the oddness that came from my hours of primping and preening for Oxley's dinner and my date with Burt, I swore not to spend more than half an hour prepping for drinks (friendly, normal, just-friends drinks, as I kept having to tell myself) with Indy. It was NOT EASY. Using the justification that picking out clothing doesn't count as primping, I spent at least forty-five minutes doing that alone, rifling through my shelves, drawers, and hangers in search of something impressive and cosmopolitan (it was the Royal Garden Club, after all), but still casual and… Marion. If I wanted to be anything tonight, it was me.

Finally, I struck gold, or at least silver, on a pleated moss green dress with ¾ sleeves and off-white trim. The wind and rain were still coming down hard, so I chose black lace-up boots and a matching rain slicker, just in case he had some crazy idea that we were going to walk any distance in this weather. Having gotten dressed, I checked the clock to make sure I was still within my half hour time limit… 10 minutes left. That meant sacrificing something, either my hair or my face.

"It's Indy, he's not going to care," I said carefully to the mirror. Unfortunately, it's a pretty good mirror, and it had (has) a knack for highlighting flaws… every single one of them.

Blemish here! Frizzy hair over there! (Haha, I made a rhyme!) Blah blah blah blah blah, you know what I mean?

I decided that the hair could be sacrificed, so I pulled it up into a messy, curly bun, swept some lipstick on (2 minutes to go!), and rushed out the door with a grey umbrella in hand. Predictably enough, my momentum wouldn't let up once I'd hit the landing and almost send me toppling over the railing onto the entrance hall floor, where Indy was, as always, waiting.

He glanced at his watch.

"Six o'clock sharp," he commented, as upbeat as ever. I was still extremely confused at this point, and could only nod dully and make my way towards the similarly dressed man. Well, I mean, similar like he was also wearing rain gear… not a dress. Ew ew ew ew ew, bad images!!! Ewww…

Ew. Ok. Now that that's over…

"Jones," I had to ask, stopping about halfway across the room to push an unruly black curl behind my ear. "I just… I don't understand. What happened between this morning and… what, 2? What happened between 6 and 2 that changed everything?"

Indy showed signs of a grimace; it seemed I was slowly wearing down his cheerful exterior, but at that point I wasn't sure whether or not that was the best idea. "Can we just… can I just explain this at the restaurant?" he asked, treading carefully around my questioning. I faced him directly, catching his eye and seeing something different than usual—it wasn't playful, curious, or even frustrated, the three most common feelings he displayed around me. It was almost hopeful, and there was no way around giving in to one night of drinks. I sighed, nodding subtly and crossing the rest of the room to stand next to him.

"So, we're not walking this time right?"

He chuckled quietly, shaking his head. "I'm stupid, Marion," he said, and I frowned, not entirely sure what he meant by that. "But I'm not crazy," he concluded, simultaneously opening the door and popping open the gray umbrella, which had somehow or another made it from my hand to his. It was surprisingly warm out for such weather, but wet nevertheless. I saw the vague outline of a vehicle at the curb and realized that he'd called a checkered cab to take us into the city. It was a sweet gesture, and I knew not a cheap one, but by some miracle I kept my mouth shut and made it all the way to the car with my dignity intact, except for some very damp boots.

God, cars are so much faster than walking… it took a grand total of 10 minutes to get to a restaurant that would've normally taken half an hour to ride my bike to, maybe an hour of walking. Technology is a beautiful thing, I tell ya. I have to admit, though, the whole "not talking" thing during the car ride made things a little weird… usually, at least one of us could make small talk about some crazy shit, like the weather, or how bad our dads are at being dads, or something like that. It just didn't happen. I stared out my window, and he stared out his—five bucks says we were both trying to figure out what to say next. I know I was. That, and trying to ignore the dull electricity between us. I'm calling it dull because that's just how it felt, it wasn't all crackly and hot like normal; it kind of felt like somebody'd put a wet towel over it and tried to hide it, but we could still feel the electric waves. Does electricity come in waves?

No! Wait! Currents. Electricity comes in currents. I knew that.

Anyhow, we stepped into the building, which was so shockingly dry it almost hurt (but then felt really good afterwards… I could definitely make a sex joke right now, but somehow that seems wildly inappropriate). After shedding a couple layers as we passed the coat check, Indy put his hand against my back (oh god) and guided me gently towards a small wooden table with a little "reserved" marker sitting in its center. We took our seats, and I tensed at the removal of his hand. Finally looking up and taking in our surroundings, I realized that our table was right on the edge of the dance floor, which was really about a 20' x 20' stretch of hardwood between the diners and the band on stage.

Indy and I sat on the same side of the circular table, facing the stage. I leaned back against a wooden pillar right next to my chair and breathed out slowly, trying to unwind a little and let things play out. Then, I saw Indy turn towards me out of the corner of my eye, and I turned my head a little to face him, smiling a little bit at the familiar blue-grayness. He smiled a little too, and just as I began to accept the reality that we were, in fact, on a date (whether that was its original intention or not), a tuxedo'd waiter caught my peripheral vision and I muttered,

"Two 'iced teas.' Thanks," never losing eye contact with Indy—it was almost as if I was afraid to look away, because the look in his eyes might disappear before I got another chance to feel it.

He smirked at my order. "You drink gin? I never pegged you for a gin drinker."

"First thing that came to mind," I shrugged. "It's Prohibition… who's got the right to be picky anymore?" A valid question; however, had I been in my right mind, I probably would've just ordered some 'water,' also known as vodka. Somewhere in the back of my mind, but consistently making its way to the front, was a series of thoughts about how wrong this was, how badly it was going to turn out. These were the same thoughts that had been plaguing me since the minute I realized how inexorably attracted I was to everything about the man a seat away from me—his looks, his voice and laugh, his intelligence, compassion, and genuineness were all working against me right then, damn them. He leaned in to say something, and like there was magnetism involved, I mirrored him until we were less than a foot apart, a distance that I guess at this point is becoming pretty normal for us.

"Dance with me," he whispered, and I could feel my head moving up and down of its own accord, my feet stabilize and my legs straighten to stand without my conscious permission, and my hand fall into his own as he led me out onto the nearly empty space. We took up an uncomfortably (or amazingly wonderfully, depending on how you look at it) close stance, his right hand splayed in the center of my back once again – that's now officially my favorite place for it to be – with my left on his shoulder, our other hands joined at shoulder level. I took a deep breath before the music started, trying like a mad woman to relax and believe that this was all 100% dandy, wholesome, and innocent. The music was relatively slow, fast enough to have rhythm, but mellow enough to let me ask the questions I'd pretty much been dying to for the past three and a half hours.

"Can I ask you a question, Indiana?"

He nodded once.

"Well…" I corrected, "Can I actually ask you like fifty?"

He nodded again, hiding a laugh.

"First of all… why?" Simple enough. "Why are we here, Indy?" I knew there was a right answer to this question, and so did he. But what was it?

He faltered a little, but didn't miss a step as we swayed to the music, answering, "I feel terrible about the past week," he admitted. "Nothing's gone right. I've been an idiot… especially the other night, when I tried to… you know…" Kiss me? I thought. Don't apologize for that, I wanted to say. Please don't.

But that's not what I said.

"Oh," I tried to brush it off. "It's not a big deal. You were a little…" I made a drinking motion with my right hand and lifted an eyebrow.

Indy laughed, but this time it sounded a little forced and uncomfortable. Oh, no. No, not again. Things had been going relatively well for the night, hadn't they?

I looked up at him, trying to use his facial expression to gauge what my next move would be. He looked a little pained and withdrawn; it was so early in the night that it hurt to see him so upset already. With me? I wondered. Probably… I'd probably just said something completely tactless and irritating without even knowing it. More couples joined us as the song progressed, and the lights dimmed appropriately, giving the whole scenario a dream-like quality. I kept looking up at Indy to get a reaction out of him, to open him up a little more to my questions, but he remained stoic, refusing to look at me. Finally, it became too irritating, too much like every other time one of us had let our guard down.

"This isn't fair, Indiana," I said, stopping our movement and pulling back about a foot, though he still kept his hands in place as he gave me a puzzled look. How could he not understand? I gestured around the room, indicating exactly what I meant. "You can't… let me run through this with you: first, we're friends. That's nice. Then, we're fighting. Okay, that's not so much fun. Then, you have to go and act all jealous when I go on a date with somebody else, and let's face it, you would've kissed me if I hadn't stopped you," my tone became a little more agitated, frustrated, but still hushed enough to keep the conversation private as I moved back a few more steps to give myself room to wave my hands a little wildly (I almost whacked an innocent passerby on the nose, but what position was I in to feel bad about it?). "Then things got really interesting, Indy, when you said, and I quote, 'This isn't going to work!' Maybe you're right. Maybe it isn't. If you're not going to put some real effort into being my friend, my enemy, my… you know… just don't keep half-assing all of them!"

He surprised me by, not responding with a well thought-out argument of his own, trying to drunkenly kiss me again (which was actually impossible, since we hadn't had anything to drink), or by simply walking out, the way we both had so many times in the past few days. He just stood there, smirking as always.

It was terrible! It was arrogant! It was irritating! It was the most attractive thing I'd ever seen!

"Soooo…" he drawled, tilting his head slightly and transforming that smirk into a light smile. "What're you going to do about it, huh, Ravenwood?"

By this point, I was both fumingly angry and ridiculously confused, so I did the only thing that made sense.

I kissed him. (Really good, too, if I may say so myself.) You could literally feel the pent-up energy and tension crashing into this giant electrical storm as I threw my arms around his neck the way I'd always wanted to, the way I had the night of our first big fight (but for totally different reasons), pressing my lips to his and trying my best not to seem completely desperate. It took him a minute to get his bearings, which worried me because at first I wondered if this wasn't what he'd had in mind, but then he responded forcefully. It almost made me lose my balance, but his hands snaked back around me, one at my waist and the other cupping my jaw firmly, keeping my face tilted towards his for the next… oh, say… 15 seconds?

I don't know how experienced you guys are at kissing, but in a situation like this, 15 seconds is a damn long time. People were staring… probably jealous. Hah. We pulled apart simultaneously (just our faces, the rest of us stayed – not sure how to put this – tangled), both grinning like the idiots we really, truly are for thinking this can work. For about another minute, we just stared at each other and kept grinning. In retrospect, it was really cute.

No one said anything for the rest of the night, which is kind of a blur to me at this point. We kissed, we danced and listened to the music—the gin at the table went unheeded in favor of the oak dance floor. It's mostly a blur, all the way up until about 15 minutes ago, when we arrived home (2 in the morning, give or take) and tread carefully into the entrance hall, not wanting to wake Abner. The two of us stood in the middle of the Oriental rug, trying to figure out exactly what had happened that night, not even thinking far enough ahead to consider what could or would happen next. What is someone supposed to say in a situation like that? It almost felt like I'd forgotten how to talk and have it make sense. Aka speak/write coherently. See what I mean?

Indy was the first to say anything.

"Nothing like this has ever happened to me before," he said cryptically.

"What," I teased, lifting one eyebrow, "you've never kissed a girl? Broken the rules?"

He rolled his eyes. "Of course I've kissed a girl. And broken the rules. At the same time, to boot… but it's never felt this worth it." That made me smile a little bit (thank God it was dark, or he also would've seen me turn bright red).

I brushed his cheek in a way that seemed all too familiar. "You're worth it too, Indiana Jones." With that, I stood up on my tip-toes and kissed him again. It was just supposed to be the kind of chaste goodnight kiss you see on city doorsteps, but he grabbed me around the waist and pulled me gently towards him… I basically melted right there, until I suddenly realized where we were and who might see us if he decided to roll out of bed for a midnight snack. "Good night," I whispered pointedly, fake glaring at Indy and turning around to walk upstairs to my room with as much self-control as possible. At the top of the landing, I glanced over my shoulder, and he was still standing there on the Oriental, grinning impishly. "Good night!" I repeated, smiling uncontrollably and walking into my room, shutting the door before falling back against it, my knees literally buckling at the now blurry memories of the night's events—that can actually happen! I had no idea!

So here I am, 15 minutes later. Pajama'd, tooth- and hair-brushed, and relatively drier than I was before. I do love Indiana Jones, I do! I do! And I'm far too tired to even consider the consequences.

(But don't tell him that.)

Love,

Marion