July 14, 1926

I don't understand. I don't. I really… I simply don't understand why Abner has to be clueless at all the right moments and Sherlock Holmes at all the wrong ones. When it's time to try and understand, you know, me, he's definitely the former. When it's time to get me in trouble, his inner Conan-Doyle kicks in. Or when it's time to figure out which remote corner of the globe he's jetting off to next…that's when the brain cells start working again. Great.

In short: he obviously suspects something. The man has stopped sending Indy and I out on errands for him, finds perfectly excusable reasons to always be in the room with us, and whenever he plans to go see some exhibition or meeting that I couldn't care less about, it's imperative that Indy go with him. Networking, says he. Paranoia, says I.

It's not as if we've been terribly conspicuous—maybe a wink once and a while, or – what do you call it? – footsie under the table during dinner (all Indy's idea), but it's not as if we're trying to drop hints or anything! Allow me to regress a little bit: since our intense but pleasantly surprising conversation on Saturday, things have been moving along really smoothly between the two of us! "Us" being me and Indy… Abner wasn't involved until about three days ago. We spent most of that first Saturday wandering aimlessly and awkwardly around the house, trying to decide what to do with this new decision. Pretending to read books while stealing glances at each other, grilling cheese sandwiches, arguing over who gets the last glass of milk (we thumb wrestled… I think he let me win, but what kind of milk-lover would I be if I'd protested?), that kind of stuff.

On Monday, when tensions had settled slightly and we were both feeling a little more comfortable with the conclusions that'd been drawn two days previous, Indy gave me a tour of the university, as if I didn't already know the place by heart. Hah. However, I concede that he did show me this ridiculously great abandoned library that he found one time when he was hiding from someone… I suspect it was the administration. It was really dusty, and all the books look like they'd been there for fifty years. Of course, that's impossible, since the school was only started in 1890, but that's beside the point. The shelves were 20 feet high and beautifully made, with sliding ladders that still worked almost perfectly and just the right amount of cobwebs to be mysterious and spooky without being gross.

"I thought you might like it," Indy said, smirking as he took in my look of wonderment.

"Like it?" I asked, lifting my eyebrows as I examined a desk with someone's notes and pen still sitting there, like they'd just picked up and left without a second thought. They probably had. "I love it! This is… incredible, how did I not know about it?"

"The door was locked?" he suggested, and I scoffed.

"Please, like that has ever stopped me… oh!" I exclaimed, suddenly remembering the picnic I had prepared in my rucksack. I hadn't exactly expected we'd be eating in an abandoned library, but these were the kinds of things you had to play by ear occasionally. "I brought something…"

His eyes widened as I pulled out two turkey sandwiches, fruit salad, milk chocolate bars, lemonade, and… drum roll… a bottle of bootleg rum from Joey Cantonelli's secret liquor cabinet (he owed me one for covering his butt this one time when… nevermind). I've never seen anyone's jaw drop as far as Indy's did just then, and it gave me immense satisfaction. Swaggering over to him, I moved the bottle back and forth, up and down, giggling as his eyes followed it closely.

"You serious?"

"Oh yes," I grinned as he wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me up against him.

"I'm so glad you plan ahead," his eyes twinkled, and suddenly he planted one on me. I almost dropped the bottle (almost).

"Well," I said, a little flustered but generally quite pleased with the way things were going, "at least one of us does. Shall we?" I jerked my head towards the picnic blanket (it was actually just an old towel from the linen closet) and lunch spread, and Indy nodded vigorously in agreement—I could almost hear his stomach growling.

"I like this," I stated while chewing pensively on my turkey and cranberry sauce sandwich. Indy glanced up at me with a questioning look on his face. "This," I indicated, gesturing around the room. "You, me, the secrecy… it's fun. It's refreshing. I'm glad you're here, Indy."

He swallowed whatever he'd been chewing on, and I watched, distracted, as the lump moved down his throat awkwardly, hoping he wouldn't choke.

"Yeah," he finally managed to get out. "Yeah, I'm glad too."

The two of us ate in silence for a while, just smiling and thinking and occasionally opening our mouths to say something, but only silence ensued. It was the nice kind, though; the kind where it's okay if no one feels the need to fill it with pointless conversation. It was comforting, in a way, to know that I didn't have to talk or blather or be impressive for a few minutes.

When my sandwich, fruit salad, and chocolate had been effectively diminished, I suddenly felt the urge to explore a little further into the cavernous hall. Indy's eyes were on me as I stood up and felt myself moving, as if by instinct, towards the tallest, dustiest looking shelf in sight. On reaching it, I grinned, wondering what phenomenal intuition had led me to the fictional section… my favorite, of course. There was one title in particular that looked interesting, embossed in gold cursive on a faded red cover: Love and Peril in the Dark Country. Surprised and a little impressed, I wondered what on earth an obvious romance/adventure novel was doing at the University of Chicago, a reputedly somber and studious institution (that is, until Indiana Jones enrolled).

"Read something," came a voice from behind me, and I jumped as Indy's arms snaked around my waist, locking themselves together on top of my stomach. Obligingly, I started to scan the pages, but suddenly he was breathing on my ear, my neck, my shoulder, and it was terribly distracting, so I just flipped to a random one and began to read.

"Roxie awoke on a… okay, so there's this girl tied to a big rock or something. The dastardly pirate… ooh, Indy, there are dastardly pirates involved… she struggled – why, I don't know, 'dastardly' brings up lovely images – Indy, stop it! You're making it hard to concentrate," I protested to his consistently warm, soft breath ruffling through my hair. He chuckled, and I could feel his belly jumping (if that's the right word for it) slightly behind me—it reminded me of that party game where people lay their heads on each other's stomachs and start laughing, and then they try to see how many people the laughter affects, it's quite… sorry, you get it.

The breathing ceased, and though I was slightly disappointed, it gave me a chance to find my place on the page once more. "The girl keeps struggling – apparently she'd a red-head, they were very popular in the early 1900s, didn't you know? – and suddenly the dastard plunges his… oh, my…" The room was suddenly very quiet and still. Too quiet. I suddenly realized that Indy'd stopped breathing, and then it hit me why.

"Oh! Oh, oh no, you've got the wrong idea, Jones!" I spun around to face him, shaking my head frantically and waving the now shut book in the air beside me. Indy got a quizzical look on his face, and I started laughing. "You're such a male. It was a dagger, you idiot. He stabbed her… some kind of pirate sacrifice or something." The disappointed look on his face made me start laughing even harder. He joined in with obvious self-deprecation at his own idiotic guy-ness and I buried my face against his shoulder, muffling the snorts and giggles that were sure to follow.

Finally, all the laughter died down and we were left standing there in silence, my back to the bookshelf and my face buried in the collar of his linen shirt, his arms still wrapped tightly around my waist. My breathing regained a steady rate, and suddenly I noticed the smell. The smell.

"Indiana Jones, are you wearing cologne?"

He pulled back a little and smirked. "Maybe."

"I'm flattered that you're so desperate for my approval," I mused, leaning up to kiss him for what was, unbelievably, only the second time that day. My self-restraint wasn't normally so good, you see, and apparently neither was his. This time, instead of a playful smooch (see earlier "planted one on me" etc), I found myself pressed up against the spines of books I was sure would disintegrate under pressure from my back. "Jones," I began, but he cut me off with another kiss, or maybe it was a continuation of the first one, it was impossible to tell.

I felt his tongue enter my mouth, and I was done for. I moved my hands to his light brown hair and he lifted me to his height, pressing me back against the shelves with more force. Instinctively, I wrapped my legs around his waist, thankful for the pleated skirt that allowed such liberal movement. A few disquieting thoughts entered my mind about how we'd sworn, sworn, not to let things get too serious, but they weren't serious yet, were they? This was nothing either of us hadn't done before.

Suddenly, Indy stiffened. Not like that, you sex fiends. Like… he just stopped moving, as if some sort electric shock had struck him. I unlocked my legs from around his hips and slid back down the bookshelf onto my feet, having some understanding of what this was about.

"Not too serious…" he breathed, coming back to his senses and stroking the back of my hair. "I'm sorry, Marion, I…"

"Shut up, Jones." That came out wrong. "I'm sorry," I sighed, hugging him. "I didn't mean it like that, it's just… is it wrong that I really want to?"

"No," Indy chuckled, pulling me tighter against him. "But it's definitely wrong that I do. Your dad would have my head on a stake if he found out."

"He's not Romanian, you racist historian, he's Bulgarian. There's a difference."

The air between us (though, quite literally, there wasn't much air between us at that point) settled into a calm.

This was enough, I decided. If sanity and logic and propriety and the threat of a life spent following in my father's footsteps wouldn't let me have everything and anything I wanted from Henry Jones Jr., then this was enough. I fought the suddenly overwhelming urge to tell him how much I loved him, and for how long I had, but talk about getting in too deep. If suppressed sexual urges weren't enough to kill a relationship, the L-word would definitely do the trick. Not too serious. Ha.

"Maybe we should go," he muttered.

"But what about the rum?"

Indy had the audacity to laugh at me, even though I know it wasn't malicious at all.

"Let's save it. I promise that bottle will be gone before I am."

I grinned, liking the sound of that.

We walked home in a forced comfort, if that makes sense, both trying so hard to make everything feel normal, romantic, and natural, both knowing that it was anything but.

In retrospect, Abner wouldn't have to be a detective to notice the tension there. My mistake.

Les adoro,

Marion