July 19, 1926

What. Just. Happened. And why am I awake, much less writing in my journal? I mean, I hear this kind of thing can mess with your emotions, but anything that messes with my sleep patterns is clearly more serious than anticipated.

I was staying up fairly late anyways, writing the outlines I'd never flesh out into stories, leafing through outdated fashion magazines and fretting over him… both of them, really. Indy had been missing since the evening of the 15th, and Abner had hardly been able to look me in the eye since, much less engage in a conversation. Granted, that's always been kind of a problem for us.

By the time I heard the barely audible knocking noise coming from the foyer, the clock already showed a quarter to midnight. It didn't matter that I hadn't slept solidly in four days. I knew who it was, and some demi-godly speed had me down the stairs, throwing open the door and flying into his arms almost before I'd registered it happening.

"Wuvyubin," I mumbled into Indy's soft corduroy jacket, a floppy, oversized, dirt brown thing that I'd always hated. In that moment, though, I loved it more than almost anything.

"Huh?" he responded wearily, pulling away just enough to free my mouth from his lapel.

"Where… have… you… been?"

It came out as an elevated whisper. It had to. Even though Abner had already been asleep for going on three hours, I somehow knew that he wouldn't be happy about his protégé's (ex-protégé's?) sudden appearance on the doorstep, not to mention my reaction to it.

"I can't stay, Marion. I just…" Indy hesitated, obviously distressed. "I just came to apologize. I've been so selfish, Marion, so horribly and unforgivably and inhumanely selfish and short-sighted. It was all a… no, it wasn't a trick, but it was, but it was a warranted one, and no! No, it was a test, and I failed, and Marion… oh god, I've been so selfish."

In the time it took him to spill that terrifying monologue, I'd led him inside to the oriental, shut the door as quietly as possible, removed that silly felt hat of his, and smoothed his slightly matted and clearly neglected hair. I pretended to not notice the slightly red tinge to the whites of his eyes. Indy didn't cry. He never cried. If he'd been crying, it was time to… no, no way. He'd probably just been drinking. Somehow, that thought was infinitely more comforting than the alternative.

"We can't talk here," I murmured, trying hard to stay rational for the both of us as I led him carefully up the stairs, making as little noise as I could and trying to keep him from distractedly veering into the wall. I hated having to care for a war hero who could barely walk straight. "Abner's sleeping just down the hall. Come on."

Finally, we made it into my room, which looked as messy as if Indy and Abner's tornado had blown straight through. I shoved a pile of unwashed clothes and half-filled sketchbooks off the bed and sat Indy gently down on it, hanging his hat on the bedpost.

"Unforgivably selfish," he muttered again, staring at his folded hands.

What could he possibly have done (or thought he'd done) that would inspire such incapacitating remorse? He wasn't exactly the type to overreact, and only one thing short of treason or murder struck me as capable of rendering him so self-hateful, so desperate to apologize and to beg my forgiveness.

But I didn't want to think about it. I couldn't. But if… if this really was the worst case scenario, then knowing my deceptively scheming father, it wasn't Indy's fault at all. With that comfort in mind, I did the one thing that I knew would pull him back into the real world with me, even if it was only temporary. The one thing I always do. My band-aid on the gunshot.

Lifting Indy's chin and leaning over to press my lips to his, I murmured, "I forgive you."

He shook his head but didn't attempt to pull away.

"You don't, Marion. You won't. Not if you…"

Maybe I wouldn't, I thought, but right then I didn't care. His desperation was contagious; I could feel it crawling over me, invading my mind and activating my fears, weaknesses, insecurities, regrets.

"I do, Indiana," I responded with more force, putting my hands on his shoulders and shifting over on the bed so that I was straddling his lap, smoothing his hair and kissing his forehead. "I do," I repeated, kissing his temples. "I do." His eyelids. "I do." His roughly hewn cheekbones. "I do." His lips.

Finally, something seemed to snap him out of his depressed reverie.

"You do?" he repeated, lifting his eyes to mine. A stronger blue-grey shock ran through me than I'd ever imagined could, through my skull and my spine and arms and legs, all the way to the tips of my fingers and the cartilage in my ears.

"Are you stupid, Jones, or just deaf?"

I rolled my eyes, thrilled to see him come back to life at my touch – my touch – and feel his hands move to my waist, where they took hold with a solidity I hadn't anticipated.

"I'm just in…" he trailed off. Oh my god, was he about to say…? I gave him about ten seconds before prompting gently,

"Yeah?" I don't think I breathed while waiting for him to respond.

"…in trouble. The worst trouble of my life, and it's all your fault," he responded. My heart dropped into my stomach, but I was determined not to let some girlish disappointment stop me. Stop us.

Feigning amusement, I replied coyly, "You knew what you were doing," and confidently pushed the mud-colored jacket off his shoulders. Leaning forward, I thought I felt myself falling for a moment, before I realized that he was leaning back onto the bed, and pulling me with him.

Well, I hardly need to tell you what happened from there. If you're crafty enough to have found this diary, you probably know what happens when attractive (if I may say so myself), emotionally unstable youths find themselves locking lips on a bed.

I can tell you that it was wonderful. It was everything they say it's supposed to be. Yes, it was my first time – as much as I've enjoyed dating and fooling around and all those things that proper young women aren't supposed to know exist, I've never actually met someone with whom I felt comfortable going all the way. Not that it's an enormously emotional act, in and of itself, but it is a moment of vulnerability, and I don't let just anyone see me vulnerable.

It felt like we laid there for an eternity, laughing and kissing and making characteristically snarky comments and pretending that this didn't mean the end. And then going in for round two. And round three. There may even have been a round four. All I know is: how am I possibly awake right now?

I bet he never did this with Nancy.

Finally, I heard the church bell a block and a half away give off two clear, mournful tolls. Indiana shifted beside me in the bed, and I glanced up to see his gaze directed out the window. Pushing myself up with my elbows and leaning forward to the foot of the bed, I pulled his hat from the bedpost and pressed it gently down on his head before leaning in to kiss him one more time.

"I'll see ya tomorrow, Indiana Jones."

Even I could hear the hollowness and resignation embedded in those five simple, seemingly routine words. Something told me that within 24 hours, I would be on the other side of the world from the one person I had, at least for a few precious moments, believed could have shared that world with me. Apparently that's not how this is supposed to go.

Indiana nodded slowly, trying to paste on a smile. It was really just a barely disguised grimace, and far from what I'd hoped my final image of him would be like.

And he left. After dressing himself, that is. Though I think his shirt might've been on backwards, so good thing it's two in the morning and the Fifth Avenue fashionites aren't out. (Sidenote: anyone who can make such a solid quip on a night like this is clearly destined to be a writer.)

Oh man, I just know he was about to say he loved me. They say love conquers all, right? If 'they' are right, guess I don't have too much to worry about. This kind of thing doesn't just go quietly.

Not like Indy just did.

This is not how things are supposed to go. I swear to all that is good in this world: Abner is going to pay for whatever he did to make Indy leave.

Loved (and left),

Marion