Author's Note:
I'm baccccccccccccck! And, far more importantly, so are Indy, Marion, and her clueless-but-not-as-clueless-as-we-think father. Man, I am so sorry for these past three years of silence and laziness. To be fair, I was pretty occupied by, you know, life, but all those hours I spent in Paris streaming West Wing re-runs and planning dinner party menus could totally have been better spent writing. I'm back in the field, though (the one with all the excavations), and because real archaeology clearly isn't as exciting as Steven Spielberg's version, I've had plenty of free time with which to get back into the Indy-groove. I can only pray that readership picks up again, maybe (maybe?) even with a couple original readers who, by some grace of the fanfiction gods, still have this thing on Story Alert. Here's hoping, because you guys were great.

July 18, 1926

Abner, oblivious as he can be to most real-world matters, has this weird habit of noticing and fixing (read: telling me to fix) the strangest little household flaws. Every once and a while, I'll wake up to find a full-page list of almost obsessive-compulsive tasks taped to my bedroom door, often including a request for dinner and always with the tasks listed by room. The day after Indy's and my close call in the library, I awoke to find one of these ridiculous lists on my door and enlisted the help of my… um, boyfriend(?). He seemed hesitant, but I've learned never to underestimate the power of a strategically worded nag.

"Come on, Jones. If we share the work, we'll finish early. If we finish early, you can escape on the pretense of errands before Abner gets back, and..."

"Wait, what? Why would I want to avoid Professor Ravenwood?" Indy asked, reeking of a guilty conscience (as if he were the only one). I rolled my eyes and continued.

"…and oh-so-unfortunately have to miss his play by play of Dr. Wilde's presentation on the life and times of John Lloyd Stephens."

"But Stephens is great!" protested Indy, visibly relieved that the greatest threat to his health was boredom.

"Very little remains great when translated into Abnerian," I countered, "a translation which I doubt dear Johnny and his Egyptian explorations will survive."

Indy's face fell and his eyes widened in mock fear. "But… but what about the Yucatán?" he stammered, playing along. I shook my head sadly.

"Another thrilling adventure which, under my father's tender, loving care, will soon sound about as exciting as this to-do list."

"Alright," he responded resolutely. "What's our challenge?"

"You make it sound like we're going into battle," I commented.

"What else do you call that list?" Indy responded, eying it warily. "Seriously, what's up first?"

I glanced briefly at the list, scanned it for the most ridiculous task, and grinned when I hit:

"Catalogue the second library according to the Library of Congress decimal system (Oxley's been commissioned to survey the Gobi, and I believe he'll be in need of my collection of official reports from the Pan-Oriental Geologic Society)."

The 'second library,' as my father so optimistically calls it, is in fact the attic, a massively disorganized collection of everything from archaeological illustrations, to biographies of the leaders of outlying English and French colonies, to, it seems, the official reports of the Pan-Oriental Geologic Society.

"Good think I like Ox," muttered Indy, after snatching away the list to confirm the insanity of what I'd just read aloud to him. I nodded in assent. Harold Oxley is hands-down the most tolerable member of the Oriental Institute at UChicago, and there are even days when I think we could be friends. Maybe. Kind of. When he's got a few drinks in him and stops thinking about those stupid crystal skulls for a second. And I thought the Ark sounded like bogus.

Whatever little tensions had awkwardly manifested themselves at the library not 18 hours earlier, it seems like there's nothing a day of totally absurd household chores and light banter can't clear up. Like iodine on the proverbial paper cut, just without that weird yellow stain.

I'm not great with metaphors. This'll clearly have to change if I ever want to be a writer, which – and we can discuss this later – I've actually been thinking wouldn't be too horrible. I mean, I love reading stories, so why not create them? Lord knows there are a million floating around my head (more inspired by Indiana than I'd like to admit), and I've read some pretty bad books in my time, so the standard for getting published can't be that high, can it?

Unfortunately, we distracted ourselves too well. An alphabetized library was soon followed by a thorough (and thoroughly amusing but pretty gross) cleaning of the ice box, which turned into a whole series of landscaping and dust-related tasks. By the time we realized the time – seven hours had passed, and Abner was due home any minute – it was too late for Indy to make his escape.

Surprisingly worn out from what had seemed like only a few hours of domesticity, I leaned back against the foyer wall and, feeling an uncontrollable urge to sit, found myself sliding down the wall into a little puddle of dust and frizz. A few moments later, Indy came in and slid down next to me, grinning oddly.

"You were never going to try and escape, were you?" I asked through the exhaustion.

Indy shook his head sheepishly back and forth, now slightly matted dirty blonde hair falling in front of his face. "Why should you face the Professor's monotone alone? I'll always be here to share the burden of boredom."

My eyebrows shot up. "Always," I repeated incredulously, scrutinizing his face, expecting him to blush and back-track to erase that dangerous word from the conversation.

"Always."

I intently redirected my intention to the Chinese painting on the opposite wall, tracing the delicate curls of the leaves and the sweep of each mountain, focusing even harder in an attempt to stabilize my features when I felt Indy grab my hand.

Always.

For a minute, I just let it hang above us, as visible as one of those giant "happy birthday" signs that my mom used to string up twice a year across this very room – once for Dad, and once for me. We never thought to extend her the same celebration, though I did always try to make her a card with the nice colored paper and pencils at school. She kept them all. Now I have them.

Suddenly, the front door swung open, and Abner ambled into the room. Luckily, he chose to pay more attention to the proper placement of his stiff straw hat on the (now gleaming) brass wall hangers than on the junction of Indy's and my hands. Those few seconds were enough to calmly withdraw mine and scoot as many inches away from its holder as I could without making too much fuss.

"Henry," he sighed, sounding slightly weary as he turned around to face us. If he saw anything suspicious, he didn't say it, just repeated Indy's (Henry's… weird) name. "Come into the kitchen, would you, my boy? I have a proposition that I believe you'll find quite fascinating."

I squinted in confusion, and it was then that he finally seemed to register my presence.

"Mare, my dear, would you head up to your room? Or the library, possibly? Henry and I must speak privately."

Nodding slowly in an attempt to hide my irritation at his use of the nickname and my utterly piqued curiosity at this "fascinating proposition" – a lead on the Libyan expedition, or Ark news that would take them both to Timbuktu before I could even open my mouth to protest? I prayed that wasn't the case. I prayed as hard as I could to the God I don't believe in. I prayed as I forced my tired legs to shove the rest of my body up the wall, pleaded silently as I moved up the stairs towards my door, my eyes continually shifting between Indy and my father. They, however, seemed to have eyes only for each other as they headed for the kitchen (the conference room, as I should probably start calling it).

A storm was brewing, that much was clear in my father's unusually furrowed brow and the sudden tension in Indy's shoulders. But would it be a captivating, productive, electrical storm, or a devastating tornado? I couldn't tell. We get both in Chicago.

It didn't take too long to realize that it was the latter variety. Normally I'd have sat on the stairs and eavesdropped like the schoolgirl that I am, but the potential consequences of the conversation going on downstairs were too ambiguous and scary for me to want to hear.

I heard raised voices, and not the mutually joyful kind. Hmm, it probably didn't involve the Ark then, which meant I was off the hook for that worry. Unless… no, no way. He couldn't possibly have figured it out. We were good! We were subtle, we were smart, I tried to convince myself, even though I knew just how far that was from the truth.

The voices reached a peak. I didn't even know whose voice was whose until heavy footsteps sped through the front hall, the front door opened and slammed, and I heard my father yelling out the window, "You've made your choice, Henry Jones!" and then more quietly, more to himself, "and we will not forget."

This was three days ago. I haven't seen Indiana since.

Prayerfully yours (what am I praying for, again?),

Marion