Disclaimers; The characters in this story are based on those in 'Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. No copyright infringement is intended.
Rating R, m/m slash fiction.
Author, Sue.
Feedback and comments are very welcome. Email Sue at . Please note that due to work commitments, replies may be delayed or not possible. Apologies in advance.

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INDIANA JONES AND THE LAST TABOO

3. CELEBRATION

The doorbell rang shortly after 2 p.m., jolting Henry from serene contemplation of an early mediaeval manuscript. He glanced out of the window of his tiny first-floor study to see who was calling, and spied with relief the familiar bulk of Marcus Brody silhouetted against the snow. His mood improved rapidly; he needed company at the moment, sympathetic company in particular, and he made haste down to the front door to let his friend in.

"You know, Marcus, it's time you had your own key," he said, genially, swinging the door wide.

Marcus thrust a wrapped bottle of whisky into his hands. "I can just imagine Junior's reaction to that idea," he chortled, stepping into the hall. "He's very keen on safeguarding his privacy, you know - probably afraid someone will try to steal you away."

"Rubbish!" Henry did his best to quell his momentary embarrassment; he was reluctant to discuss this most private aspect of the life he shared with his son, even in the presence of Marcus who had known about the affair almost before it began. The fundamental urge to caution was still dominant in Henry's mind.

He ushered Marcus into the living-room, now cluttered with the best of Henry's furniture as well as Indiana's. It was even more crowded than usual, with homeless books stacked behind chairs and on the windowsills and mantelpiece. It was hard to imagine that in a few hours' time they would be trying to squeeze upwards of twenty people into this confined space.

"Indiana just likes to be careful," he added, loyally, as Marcus cleared books from the seat of an armchair and sank down into it. "What's the occasion for this?" he added, unwrapping the whisky and holding the bottle up to the light, assessing its colour with an expert eye.

"Your party tonight," Marcus reminded him. "Will Indy be back in time?"

Henry looked troubled. He cleared a space for the whisky on the mantelpiece and arranged it with all the concentration he would have shown had it been a precious artefact of bygone days. "I really don't know, Marcus. Did he tell you why he was going to Washington?"

"As a matter of fact, no," Marcus told him blithely, uncomfortable with the lie. "I can't imagine what it can possibly be about - but I shouldn't let it worry you, old boy." His smile was sheepish - there were times even now when he felt like an intruder on the relationship between Henry and his son, although both had taken a great deal of trouble to assure him that his place in their affection was unaffected by their extraordinary decision to become lovers. At times like this, when Henry's emotions ran close to the surface, Marcus wished he could wipe away the last forty years with the sweep of his hand and restore the peace and simplicity of earlier days.

"You know," Henry was saying, his face a carefully-constructed mask of self-deprecation, "Olivia started going off on her own and refusing to tell me where or why. It was only when it was too late that I discovered she'd been running off to Boston to see a cancer specialist. I thought she was having an affair."

"I know, you old fool," Marcus laughed, gently. "You even suspected me - and you should know better than anybody that I've been quite unrepentantly 'queer' my entire life. If I'd had an affair with anybody, Henry, it would have been you - again. I suppose you told her all about that, by the way?"

Henry's thoughts drifted; Cambridge, over forty years ago. Had the sun really shone every day then, or did it just feel like that to him now? Cricket at Fenner's, picnics by the river, studying late over tea and muffins in the room he shared with Marcus - and his own rather startling awakening to homosexuality as Marcus's lover, in the days before Oscar Wilde's trial made sodomy a disgusting public spectacle.

A rather serious-minded, provincial youth from Edinburgh with his sights firmly fixed on a life devoted to the study of mediaeval literature, Henry had been somewhat startled when the arbitrary lottery of room-sharing had matched him with the aesthete son of a rural Church of England bishop. Marcus's privileged upbringing had been in severe contrast to his own; Henry's puritanical lawyer father would never have countenanced the presence in his home of the kind of whimsical, lavishly-illustrated books Marcus's rather more liberal family had tolerated.

At first, the two young men could find little to talk about; their conversational efforts were devoted to each trying to persuade the other of the error of his ways - Marcus trying to discourage Henry's strict adherence to his parents' code of conduct, Henry trying to stem Marcus's drinking. Unpromising as this beginning might have seemed, a strong friendship was forged between the two contrasting personalities which had a mellowing effect on them both, and by the end of their freshman year they were utterly inseparable.

The window onto the world provided by Cambridge had changed Henry's life more completely than his father could have foreseen. Delighted by the boy's academic progress, William Jones hadn't noticed how unhappy Henry seemed to have returned home for his first long vacation. Before a fortnight had passed Henry was finding the atmosphere of his father's house claustrophobic and restrictive, and was longing for the easy-going, undemanding company Marcus offered. With hindsight, it was easy to see the stern attitudes of his God-fearing father and the sycophancy of his colourless, insipid mother reflected in his own rather rigid upbringing of Junior some decades later. It was fortunate for them both that they seemed to have risen above the conditioning of their childhood.

He'd been sustained throughout that summer by frequent but uncommunicative letters from Marcus. Since all letters that came into the house were read as a matter of course by the paterfamilia, Marcus was sensible enough to discuss neutral topics such as his studies, visits to museums and art galleries, and cricket. Despite being a heathen Scot Henry had, due to Marcus's influence, come to love that incomprehensible game. At least it was something of which his father did not disapprove.

The journey south to return to University that autumn was one of the longest and most nerve-wracking Henry had taken in his life; just as stressful, in its way, as the journey he'd taken recently to join his life to his son's in perpetuity. He'd got back to find Marcus already waiting in their rooms, and Marcus had thrown both arms around him, hugged him tight and greeted him with affectionate tears - a gesture and an affection Henry had found himself returning.

Later that same evening, fortified with pale sherry and lounging beside their study fire in quiet companionship, Marcus had confessed what Henry had long suspected - that he had been involved in what were known at the time as 'Greek' relationships with other men, and that he had fallen in love with Henry. Henry had had plenty of time during the summer to consider this possibility, and had already reached a decision about it. He had come to Cambridge to learn about life, as well as about mediaeval literature. He had put down his sherry glass with unnecessary firmness, got to his feet - and taken Marcus to bed.

Astonishingly enough, their love affair had enhanced rather than detracted from their studies. Marcus, whilst moderately overt about his sexual preferences, was far from indiscreet, and even in that hotbed of gossip and suspicion no-one ever thought to question the close relationship between the effete Englishman and the studious Scot. Even the fact of their spending so much time together in the vacations - three holidays with Marcus's family in Oxfordshire and one in the stultifying atmosphere of Henry's home in Edinburgh - seemed to excite no adverse comment as long as their work remained of its universally superior quality.

Henry had entered into the affair in a spirit of enquiry, but had learned to love Marcus and their secret, passionate relationship. However, being an outstandingly handsome young man with an unruly mop of jet-black hair above startling brown eyes and highly expressive eyebrows, Henry attracted a certain amount of attention from the young ladies of his acquaintance too. Predictably, he'd chosen to fall in love eventually with one who just wasn't interested in him - an American friend of Marcus's sisters. He'd decided, without consulting her, that he wanted Olivia to be his wife - and, honourably, he'd told Marcus first. Marcus, matching Henry's nobility with his own, had made a solemn promise. If ever Olivia accepted Henry's proposal, he would withdraw from the scene in good order and complicate Henry's life no further.

It had taken three years, but eventually Olivia had changed her mind and accepted Henry, and Marcus had kept his promise.

"Yes, she knew," Henry said now, answering Marcus's question from the depths of a sea of memory. "It didn't make any difference to her affection for you."

"And how do you think she'd feel if she could know about you ... and Indiana?" Not that Olivia would recognise the blond eight-year old son she'd left behind as the strong, broad, heroic figure responsible for the safety of, amongst others, the Ark of the Covenant and the Holy Grail.

It was one of those unanswerable questions, Henry realised, like; "And how did you like the play, Mrs Lincoln?"

"Love is love," he said, obliquely. "Olivia realised that. I've been lucky, Marcus - you, Olivia ... the boy." He lowered his gaze, powerful memories warring within him to the point where he couldn't meet Marcus's eyes.

"Henry, dear," Marcus began, using a rare expression of affection dating from a time when no awkwardness had intruded between them, "that isn't luck. It's no accident the three of us have loved you so much. It's because of you and who you are."

His former lover seemed suddenly to pull himself together and slapped Marcus on the shoulder casually. "You're becoming soft and sentimental in your dotage," he declared, voice now strong and forceful.

"I'm the same age as you," Marcus reminded him, with mild indignation. "Besides, I haven't cornered the market in sentiment, have I? It hasn't escaped my notice, old boy, that your son's been wearing a rather expensive-looking gold signet ring set with a ruby - on his left hand."

Henry turned away, shrugging uncomfortably. It would be inaccurate to suggest that he blushed, but an expression of embarrassment flitted across his face briefly. "It's Christmas," he said.

"I imagine I'm not the only person who might notice it, though," Marcus told him.

"Possibly not - but I hardly think Indiana's likely to tell anyone the truth, do you?" Henry was becoming more than a little annoyed at the tone this conversation was taking. The giving and receiving of that ring - a large, square gold face on a plain, thick band with a ruby the size of a pin-head set into one corner - had caused Henry endless heart-searching both before and since, but the pleasure of seeing his ring on Indiana's finger far outweighed, in his opinion, the possible dangers. As a lover he knew he was old-fashioned; it had been the custom of men of his generation to shower their beloveds with trinkets and tokens of affection - not an easy process, in Indiana's case. He'd taken advantage of the one opportunity that had presented itself, and made a discreet purchase out-of-town. The look in his son's eyes as Henry slipped the ring onto his finger would be worth whatever the jail sentence was for their particular crime a dozen times over - and that moment of unprecedented tenderness, that ritual obeisance to romance, had been the preliminary to a night of lovemaking during which Henry had discovered anew the depth and nature of Indiana's love for him.

He recalled his mind to the present with difficulty. Marcus was watching the play of thoughts across his face. "You really are besotted with him, aren't you?" he asked, peevishly.

"Yes," Henry affirmed proudly. "Jealous?"

His shot hit home, and immediately Henry felt guilty. Marcus went white, his startled eyes protruding as he calmed the urge to shout at Henry and wound him with words. "Madly, old boy. Of both of you." There was a silence, an awkward pause heavy with the emotions Henry had unleashed and now could not seem to bring under control, and then Marcus stood up. "I'd better push off, Henry," he said, apologetically. "Got to start meeting trains soon. Is there anything else you need for the party?"

"No. Nothing." The sudden change to a surface-level, practical conversation caught Henry unawares, and he found it difficult to follow. He was staring at the floor, trying to get his thoughts in order.

Marcus had reached the door before the unresolved note in their earlier discussion caught up with him.

"You surely don't think Indiana's hiding some dreadful illness from you the way Livvy did?" he asked, appalled by the urgency of the notion and unable to be tactful to save his life.

Henry looked up at him, myopic brown eyes behind their glass shields full of just that numbing possibility. Marcus recoiled from the doubt and naked horror he saw there, cut to the quick by his friend's suffering. He did his best to return a look of sympathy and affection which fell far short of meeting the need visible on Henry's face.

Unable to meet that need, or to assuage that pain, Marcus did the next best thing; he left, and left Henry alone with his grief.

Marcus returned a little after nine that evening, bringing a car load of party guests who were staying with him at his somewhat larger house a couple of miles away; they were the people whom, apart from Henry and himself, Indiana considered to be his immediate family. Indy was a man who made acquaintances rather than close friends, yet in almost every country around the world there were people who thought kindly of him and would be only too glad to help him out in a crisis. Of his closest friends only Sallah and Faiyeh and their innumerable children would be missing tonight; Marcus had made strenuous efforts to locate Marion Ravenwood at the select mid-Western ladies college where she was currently teaching, and had persuaded Willy Scott and her millionaire Greek husband Gavrakis to break the monotony of their winter sojourn at the Hilton Hotel in New York City to take the train north for a few days in primitive New England.

Indy simply was not a party-giver. He tended to stay away from groups of the idle rich - or simply just idle - and the noxious concoctions they invented to drink. The idea this time, predictably, had been Marcus's, and in a spirit of loving indulgence Indy had given way like a house of cards to an idea that seemed to have given Henry so much pleasure. In fact, Indy's demeanour had been very subdued, lately - he'd let the party preparations and the proposed guest list roll over him without seeming to react at all. Henry doubted this celebration was really to his son's taste, but Indy welcomed any topic of conversation that distracted attention from his forthcoming trip to the nation's capital and therefore the plans went ahead, despite the lack of enthusiasm of one of the hosts. As for the Washington trip - Henry was determined not to ask. If it was something Indiana wanted him to know about, he'd be told in good time. Until then, he did not intend to pry.

By the time Marcus and his guests arrived it looked very much as if the party was going to take place in Indy's absence. Nothing had been heard from him since his early morning departure in the Packard, and Henry was beginning to be seriously concerned.

He was returning from settling Isla Donovan on the living-room couch beside his old friend Frances Jefferson Faulkner when Marcus rang the doorbell. He felt oddly responsible for Isla - at least, for her unhappily widowed state - and had done his best to alleviate her grief wherever possible. Acting in the capacity of an old friend of both Isla and her late husband he'd dragged her up here from New York to renew her acquaintance with Frances, an anthropologist, also widowed, in the hopes that the two women would find enough in common to sustain them through the difficult times ahead.

Privately, Henry wondered just how well this heterogeneous collection of human beings would get along together. Sundry academic acquaintances of his own and Indiana's were met in technical or philosophical converse at various points throughout the house, and Indy's police officer friend Kyle Benson, with his shy wife and even shyer rookie partner, were staying close to the table that held the booze, as though afraid to cast themselves loose and drown in the deep conversational waters all around them. The arrival of Marcus and Gavrakis with two outstandingly beautiful girls enlivened the atmosphere considerably - even Mrs Benson began to take notice of her surroundings at last.

Willy and Marion had never met before; their introduction at Marcus's house had been the preliminary to an hour or so of verbal sparring at the end of which the two girls had forged an uneasy truce by the simple expedient of banishing from their conversation all mention of the only topic they had in common - Indy. They appeared in the doorway on this cold night looking fresh, warm and happy, and immediately brought a sparkle to the otherwise tedious proceedings.

"Henry!" Marion threw her arms around him impulsively and hugged him. "It's so good to see you again." Her brief engagement to Indy, at a time when they had both been too young to know any better, had left her with fond memories of his stern but approachable father. "Where's Indy?" She glanced around, as if expecting him to leap out at her from behind a curtain.

"Hello, Marion, dear." He returned her hug with affection, kissing her on the cheek. As he glanced over her shoulder he caught Marcus's eye and exchanged with him a look of concern. "I'm afraid he's been delayed." His smile appeared effortless, but Marcus knew how much it was costing him. "Business in Washington - he'll be here at any time. Now, I'm sure you remember Frances?" he went on, without a break. "She's holding court in the living-room. Go on and say 'hello' - she's been looking forward to seeing you again." He stepped aside to let her pass, and shook hands with Marcus, whose expression was grave.

"He's not back?" Marcus asked, seeing momentary despair in Henry's eyes.

"No." The monosyllable urged discretion, and for once Marcus took the hint beautifully.

"Henry, I don't think you know Stavros Gavrakis and his lovely wife - the former Miss Willy Scott," he said, formally, drawing Gavrakis forward. "Gavrakis, Willy, meet Henry Jones, one of our hosts for this evening."

"You're Indy's father?" Willy surged forward enthusiastically, her eyes shining a warm greeting. "Oh, yes, I can see the resemblance. Glad to know you, Henry."

"Mrs Gavrakis, welcome," Henry told her, slightly nonplussed. "Let me take your coat. Mr Gavrakis - a great pleasure to meet you."

He was in the act of reaching to shake Gavrakis' hand when the front door slammed open, bringing in an icy blast of air and a dishevelled, exhausted-looking Indiana who half-stumbled, half-fell into the hall and then stared around him as if not certain he was in the right house. Henry stepped forward, concern almost overmastering discretion as he reached towards his son.

"Junior? What on earth's wrong?"

"Uh? Oh, nothing." Indy stripped off his overcoat, scarf and hat briskly and dropped them onto a chair. "Just give me a couple of minutes to get changed," he added, glancing around. "Hi, Willy, hi, Gavrakis - hello, Marcus. Back in a minute." With this perfunctory greeting he dived for the stairs and headed up them two at a time towards the bedroom, deliberately avoiding any attempt his father might have made to speak to him.

Henry experienced the grief of rejection as a knifelike jab to the heart, but pulled himself together quickly and returned his attention to his guests.

"Come along and have something to drink," he said, cheerfully, avoiding the interrogation in Marcus's gaze as he steered them towards the bright, welcoming crowd in the living-room.

For the greater part of the evening, Indiana Jones was the spectre at his own feast. When he joined the party, immaculately dinner-jacketed and prepared to do his usual faultless impersonation of the suave host, it was noticeable that his eyes seemed sunken and his appearance haggard in a way not completely accounted for by the amount of driving he had done during the day.

The necessity of circulating amongst their guests and spending time with each one in turn meant that father and son had few opportunities for conversation during the evening. Each time they spoke, however, Henry realised just how much Indy was drinking - and how little the strained expression in his eyes had altered. At one point Henry paused in the course of a conversation with Frances and glanced across to where Indy sat, briefly alone, twisting the signet ring on his left hand.

"What's the matter with Junior, Henry?" Frances asked gently. As an old friend of the family, Frances was one of the few privileged to use Indy's childhood nickname. "He's drinking rather a lot. Women problems?"

"I doubt it," Henry assured her, his attention still distracted. Marion was wandering over to talk to Indy; Henry wondered whether that was a good thing, but couldn't see how to prevent it. "What are you doing these days, Frances?" he asked, making a determined effort at normal conversation.

"The spread of Polynesian culture throughout the Pacific," she told him, briskly, "but you aren't interested in that, Henry, and we both know it. You're far too worried about Junior."

His eyebrows lifted quizzically as he turned back to face her. "I'm sorry. Was it that obvious?"

"Let's just say that if you're trying to hide it you're making a lousy job of it, shall we?" Frances responded, taking a healthy swig of her bourbon and branch. "Is it anything you can talk about?"

Henry patted her hand. "I honestly don't know, Fran," he said, sadly, "but by God I intend to find out."

"If you need any help, Henry ... "

He squeezed the hand he held; a slender, tapered left hand still bearing the traditional solitaire diamond and plain gold band given to Frances a quarter of a century earlier by her late husband. He thought of the fingers that had toyed nervously with the ruby signet ring.

"It's complicated," he vouchsafed, eventually.

"I can see that. Do you want me to distract Marion so that you can talk to Indiana?"

The light in Henry's eyes betrayed his answer ahead of time. He didn't need to speak.

Frances was on her feet within seconds, forcing her way through the sea of partygoers like the cutwater of a ship parting the waves.

"Marion, dear," she said, rather too loudly for Henry's comfort, "I understand you're just back from the Chicago seminar. Did you see Arthur Russell there?" The excision was performed so smoothly Marion barely noticed she was being manoeuvred. Indy looked up, baffled, to see her being steered away by the formidable Frances, and Henry standing over him with an expression of censure he'd thought had been banished forever.

"Outside," Henry said. "I want to talk to you."

"Henry, I just don't feel like talking right now." The voice was slightly slurred, but the amount of alcohol he had consumed did not seem to have reduced Indy's pain - he still looked, somehow, defeated.

"I said 'outside', Junior - now ." Henry didn't raise his voice the fraction of a decibel. He didn't need to - the strength of the glare he unleashed upon his son convinced Indiana that obedience would be his wisest course.

"Yessir." He put down his drink and followed Henry into the chaotic but temporarily deserted kitchen, out of sight and earshot of their many guests.

They faced each other uneasily amidst the clutter of party preparations. In an excess of festive spirit a couple of days before, Marcus had insisted on every room being decorated with streamers, holly and mistletoe in the traditional British style, and it had been left to Indy to carry out his instructions. Even the kitchen had not escaped as, acting on the orders of the two older men, Indy had toured the house with stepladder, tacks and a huge box of paperchains. The tiny kitchen now looked like a cross between Santa's Grotto and the aftermath of the feeding of the five thousand.

The kitchen was totally dominated by Henry's presence. Although only an inch or so taller than his son, he seemed in his disturbed anguish to tower over him in the confined space.

"What the hell is the matter with you?" he whispered, afraid that at any moment a stray reveller might intrude on their privacy.

"I'm drunk," Indy told him, succinctly.

"I can see that, my boy. Why are you drunk? What's on your mind?"

"I can't tell you, Dad - not right now. I don't want to spoil the party."

"You're spoiling it already," Henry protested. "I thought we'd stopped keeping secrets from one another, Indiana - six weeks ago, in New York."

Grief coursed across Indy's face. "Oh, Henry," he said, devastated, taking both his father's hands in his, "believe me, I don't intend to keep it a secret - but working my way round to telling you is the hardest thing I've had to do in my life."

Henry allowed himself to contemplate that statement. Telling him this piece of news, whatever it was, was harder than stopping a fully-armed tank single-handed; harder than stepping onto an invisible bridge over an unfathomable chasm; harder even than the decision Indiana had made when he became his father's lover.

"I understand," Henry said, unevenly, wishing that he did. "Just tell me one thing, Junior. Is it ... Marion? Are you regretting - ?" He couldn't finish. Marion was the only one of Indy's girlfriends he could ever perceive as a rival, and he liked her too much to fear her and feared her too much truly to like her.

"No." The hands flew to Henry's face and framed it tenderly. " No ." Indy rested his forehead against Henry's, his mind blotting out the existence of their houseful of guests. "You know it isn't her, Henry. I don't need her or anybody else now. I love you. You know that."

"I know it." Henry's eyes closed. "I wish I knew what was troubling you, Indy."

Indiana kissed his forehead. "I'll tell you, I promise." He glanced around cautiously, wondering if they were still safe from prying eyes. He was not generally a man who took rash chances, but here and now the impulse to kiss Henry was stronger than the imperative to caution. Without preamble he tilted his father's face towards his and kissed him full on the mouth, with a total abandonment of commonsense quite alien to him and terrifying to Henry. Henry went with it, however, content to let his son set the pace, hoping it might help to assuage the pain he was so obviously suffering.

"Indy, darling, which door did you say was the powder room?" Willy Gavrakis, drunker even than Indy - in fact, rivalling Marcus for alcohol consumption - erupted from the living-room and caused the temporary cessation of both Indy's and Henry's heartbeats. They parted quickly and turned towards her, but her unfocussed eyes were not even aimed in their direction - she was looking at the three doors at the top of the staircase.

"The one on the right, honey," he told her, stumbling over the words. Henry was doing his best to be invisible, unable to look at either Indy or the girl.

"Thank you." She smiled and wafted past them on a cloud of expensive secent. "Gee," she said softly as she passed, "you must be some close family."

From that point onwards, Indy's mood deteriorated rapidly. Henry left him alone in the kitchen and returned to the fray with a persistence he could only describe, later, as 'manic'. He became involved in a rather pointless debate about opera with Isla Donovan, which was frequently interrupted by the necessity of refereeing a discussion about religion between Gavrakis, Frances and Marcus. When, eventually, Indy returned, he managed to get himself embroiled in the minute dissection of current trends in world politics with a singularly charmless Professor of Economics he hardly knew, and became more and more irritated with every minute that passed.

By 2 a.m. Henry had become tired of trying to keep alive an event which was so obviously dying on its feet, and he decided it was time to start making coffee and sobering people up. He headed for the kitchen again, but raised voices from that direction stopped his progress just short of his target and he retreated to a safe distance to eavesdrop shamelessly on a very heated debate between his son and Marcus, both severely the worse for drink.

"I don't care, Indy," Marcus was saying, brutally, "I still feel you should have told him before you went."

"Marcus, how could I? I wasn't sure exactly what they wanted - and he'd only have worried." From his hiding-place Henry could see that Indy had a bottle of whisky, from which he now took a swig. "How the hell'd you expect me to tell him?" he added, miserably.

"Of course, he's not likely to worry now , is he?" Marcus's words dripped sarcasm. "It's a bad way to start a relationship, Indiana. In almost five years I never told him a single lie - not about anything that mattered. You barely got through five weeks ."

Indy's expression became grimmer than ever, his words ground out between clenched teeth. "Marcus, I don't need to be reminded that you had an affair with Henry before I was even born ... "

"Of course not, my dear." Marcus was at his most urbane - and his most infuriating. "If I didn't know you better, Indiana, I might think you were jealous."

Indy was almost incoherent with annoyance. "Jealous? Jealous ? Marcus, I have no need to be jealous of anyone. What you and Henry had was over forty years ago; I'm the living proof of that."

"Don't get over-excited, old boy," suggested Marcus, coolly, his voice dripping like honey over broken glass. It was astonishing to Henry that this hoarse-whispered conversation hadn't reached the ears of his other party guests but they were making plenty of noise themselves, laughing at some of Gavrakis' off colour funny stories. "Surely you're not afraid that when you're no longer here I might..."

"No, Marcus, I'm not afraid - and I'm not jealous. But I think you are."

The swiftness of Marcus's response startled both Indy and the watching Henry. Superficially an idle, unfit man of late middle-age, Marcus drew on some hitherto unsuspected reserve of courage and agility and before anyone realised quite what he intended he had slammed a bruising fist into Indy's face.

Indy staggered back, staring at him in astonishment. For a moment, only a moment, the spirit of his alter-ego, the adventurer, gleamed in his eyes and he seemed to be squaring himself up to return the blow with a force that would undoubtedly have broken every bone in Marcus's body - then, with a convulsive shudder and a cry of genuine alarm he turned around, propelled himself across the room, and threw up in the sink.

A hand touched Henry's arm in the darkness of the hallway, nearly jolting him out of his skin, and a soft voice whispered close to his ear.

"C'mon, we'd better get that boy out of there." It was Willy Gavrakis, and the distracted Henry managed to notice that she didn't seem anything like as drunk as she had earlier.

Henry made a quick decision to trust her. "Help me get him to bed," he said, urgently - and didn't think about how the words had sounded until much, much later.

The ignominy of being frogmarched upstairs between his father and Willy, leaving an appalled and mortified Marcus lurking in the kitchen, only impinged on Indy's consciousness long after it was over. At the time he was too busy trying to hold onto the contents of his stomach to wonder what the two of them must think of him - and if he had done so he would have expected only loving tolerance from Henry.

Willy was a quite separate matter. She was talking to him all the time, castigating him for drinking too much and not eating enough, for acting generally like an unintelligent boor. By the time they reached the bedroom door and Henry wrenched it open, Indy was in no doubt as to Willy's opinion of him and his behaviour this evening, although he was not in any condition to respond.

Henry and Willy dropped the corpse onto the bed with little ceremony, abd Willy slammed the door behind them. Before Henry had a chance to protest, the girl was divesting Indy of his jacket and tie whilst Henry removed his son's shoes.

"Are you gonna throw up again, Indy?" Willy asked, practically.

The only reply was a groan.

"I wouldn't trust that," she told Henry, interpreting the groan as a denial. "Better get him a bucket."

"I will."

"You know," she continued, conversationally, "I never saw Indy drink too much before. He must have a lot on his mind." She paused in her removal of Indy's shirt to look up into Henry's eyes and read the concern they held.

"I believe he has," he said, non-committally, "although I don't know what it is."

"You think," she began, softly, "it has anything to do with you and him?" She saw him flinch and begin to search his mind for a suitable set of lies, and carried on regardless. "Look, even if I was drunk, seeing the two of you in the kitchen would have sobered me up. A guy - especially a guy like Indy - doesn't normally kiss his father quite that way. So, since I guess you really are his father - Marcus seems to think so, anyway - things must be pretty complicated for you and Indy. Right?"

Henry could only stare at her, open-mouthed, unable to think of a thing to say.

"You reckon we should take his pants off?" she went on, briskly, indicating the crumpled trousers of the evening suit. "Aw, go ahead," she promted, when Henry seemed reluctant to do so. "He doesn't have any secrets from me."

Obediently Henry unfastened and removed the trousers, then pulled the bedcovers over the now almost comatose Indy. Only when he had done this could he meet Willy Gavrakis's searching gaze with the defiant expression in his own eyes.

"You were pretending to have had too much to drink?" he surmised, suspiciously.

"Henry, I'm an actress as well as a singer," she told him, with a sheepish smile. "Sometimes you have to pretend not to have seen something. Aw ahit, I walked in on a private scene between you and Indy and I couldn't be sorrier!" she added, impulsively, genuine regret tumbling out past the facade of civilised detachment. "It's none of my business," she went on, "but you guys don't use both the bedrooms here, do you?"

The direct enquiry, on top of the farcical decay of the evening, got through to Henry's hitherto dormant sense of the ridiculous. "No," he admitted, with a wryly embarrassed smile. "What used to be the spare bedroom is now my study."

Willy had been arranging Indy's discarded clothing on a hangar. She had to pass Henry to reach the wardrobe with it, and as she did so she gripped his arm. "Look, honey, I'm not a problem," she assured him, confidently. "Day after Christmas, Gavrakis and I get on the train and head for home. Gavrakis may be dumb, but he's got money and he's good in bed - he's not your problem, either. As for Marion - she's too busy with her own life to give you any trouble, though I guess there's no use expecting her to understand. Hell, even three years ago I realised Indy needed somebody really special - really different . I did think maybe it would be a guy, but I never would have guessed ... "

Henry glanced down fondly at Indy's peaceful features. "It was something of a shock to me, too," he admitted, his tone deep and gentle.

"I'll just bet it was." Watching his face, Willy began to understand how on earth Indiana had managed to find himself in the extraordinary situation of having a love affair with his own father; genuine delight at Indy's presence shone from Henry's eyes, and for a brief moment the girl was able to imagine how it would be for the two of them together. It was quite obvious to her that they adored one another.

She finished what she was doing and recrossed the room. "No, I'm not the problem," she reiterated, softly. "But Indy wouldn't get that drunk unless there was something really bugging him. Is everything between you okay?"

Henry's head reeled. He had met Willy Gavrakis only a few hours earlier, and now she was asking him the most imtimate details of his relationship with his son. Moreover she was doing so whilst actually sitting on the bed they shared, in the amber-lit spice-scented bedroom that was their most secret hideaway from the world. The room itself made no attempts at concealment; Henry's clothes and Indy's jostled for space in the wardrobe, a miscellany of their belongings cluttered the available surfaces, shoes in two sizes were stuffed beneath the dressing-table. It was quite obviously a bedroom shared by two men of differing ages, telling its simple tale to anyone who walked in through the door. Willy Gavrakis knew all there was to know about Henry's love for his son, and suddenly he didn't care any more.

He sat down beside her on the bed. "Everything's fine," he said, surprising himself with the normality of his tone. "Or, at least, I thought it was. Indiana had to go on a trip today, and he wouldn't say where or why. He's never kept anything hidden from me before."

"Well, at least you know it's not a woman," she told him, marvelling at her own clear-headedness. "I mean, once Indy got involved with you, there could never be anyone else. Ever."

He smiled, humbled by her insight. "That was the conclusion I came to," he admitted. "It doesn't stop me worrying about him, though."

"Of course not. You love him." Willy kissed his cheek - a light, scented touch, so different from Indy's kiss. "Sure you're worried - but he said he'd tell you, when he found the courage. Now, how about we go down and get rid of your guests, and then you and Indy can get some peace - right?" She gripped his hand in her own and hauled him to his feet. Henry felt, obscurely, that he was being chivvied by some daughter he'd never known he had.

"Thank you," he said, in genuine admiration of her compassionate attitude, and allowed her to lead him from the room.

Indy awoke late the following morning. His mouth tasted as if it was full of feathers, and his body felt as bruised and battered as it had when he had climbed back up the cliff after dispatching Vogel's tank. His immediate thought on waking was that he was getting old; the landmark age of forty was closing in on him rapidly, and he wondered just how long he could continue his more adventurous second career. He'd have liked to be able to retire, but things just seemed to keep on happening to him.

His brain was working only slowly. He remembered Marcus hitting him; remembered Henry and Willy dragging him upstairs. He also remembered, with acute embarrassment, throwing up - more than once, he thought. He'd made a disgusting spectacle of himself, and he was ashamed. Henry shouldn't have to put up with that kind of thing.

"Henry?" Memory of his father's hurt expression the previous evening recalled Indy to the present, and to the fact that in what had become their bed he was alone. Painfully he raised his head; it felt as though the Thuggees were mining inside it. His eyesight was blurred, and he could see little. "Henry?"

"Here, Junior." The tone was calm and even as Henry detached himself from the depths of the bedside chair and reached across to pull Indy into his arms. It was only when that crushing hold tightened comfortingly around him that Indy realised he was forgiven.

"I'm sorry, Dad." Indy's voice shook a little. This was all too reminiscent of the silent reproaches and endless patience that had shaped his childhood, and his natural reaction now, as then, was to cry against Henry's shoulder and let his beloved father soothe the hurt away. This time, however, tears would not come; the alcohol he had taken on board had dehydrated Indy's system to the point where he had no moisture to spare for tears. He buried his face against Henry's neck and shook, silently. "Oh, Jeez, I'm sorry, I wrecked your party."

"You didn't." Henry was stroking his back and smoothing his hair as if he held in his arms a child of six. Without regard for the incongruity of the situation he found himself rocking Indiana back and forth, whispering incoherent comforts and the time-honoured formula for arresting childish distress. "Sssh, my love, sssh. It was Marcus's party, not mine, and you didn't wreck it. Frances had a wonderful time and so did Marion. Professor Morrison seems to have persuaded Isla to fund his new research programme, so he went away happy. I myself made friends with Willy Gavrakis - it was only you and Marcus who didn't enjoy yourselves."

Indy's arms stole around his father's body and returned the tightness of his embrace. "Marcus was acting jealous, Dad. Do you think he wants you back?"

Henry was prepared for the question. "He may believe he does, son, but he'll be disappointed. Marcus and I loved each other a long time ago, but we never had what you and I have. Our fondness for each other was never enough to endure even the briefest separation. You and I, on the other hand ... " He paused. "Don't ever try to shield me from the truth, Indiana."

Indy raised red-rimmed eyes to stare at him. "You know, don't you? What'd you do, beat it out of Marcus? Or do I talk in my sleep too?"

"Marcus saw the error of his ways," Henry assured him, softly. "I know the State Department have approached you and asked you to work undercover for them during the forthcoming war with Germany - on the assumption that that is now inevitable."

"I don't know what Roosevelt can do to stop it," Indy acknowledged. "The question is not 'if' but 'when'."

"And you, of course, agreed to do it?"

"Of course."

"You couldn't have done anything different," Henry commended. "But I hope that's the last time you and Marcus join forces to lie to me."

Indy sank back into Henry's arms, reassured by the unquestioning approval he'd seen on his father's face. "I'm not supposed to live through this war, Dad," he said, making the point as gently as he could. "They told me straight - 'make a will, dispose of your property, you have less than one chance in ten of making it back alive'."

Henry continued to soothe him, his voice a lullaby. "Those are the sort of odds you thrive on, my dear boy," he whispered.

Indy drew strength from his touch. "Yeah, I know, but this time it's different. This time there's you . I'll be so afraid of losing you - I'm not sure if I can even do it any more."

"'Like looking into the mouth of hell'," Henry remembered. He had been close enough to his own death to understand the horror of the separation Indy now contemplated.

"So I did what they wanted and made a will," Indy informed him, sounding deeply demoralised. "I left everything to you. Don't argue, Henry, just humour me, huh?" He stifled the protest before it could be expressed. "I made them promise to take care of you, not just as my next of kin but as ... "

"As your lover?" Henry guessed, a pit of fear opening up somewhere deep inside him and then closing again as Indiana's eyes turned on him.

"Yes. They didn't understand at first - made me go through it about a half dozen times. It got pretty ludicrous towards the end," he recollected, with a shrug. "I hadda keep saying 'Yes, he really is my father and yes, he really is my lover and yes, I know that's illegal but if you want me to work for you you have to take care of him, because that's my price'."

There was pride in his delivery, but it made no mention of the cold-eyed threats that had wrung reluctant promises from the State Department bureaucrats who had interviewed him. Henry could imagine the scene only too clearly; all that contained fire, all that suppressed power, held within the frail vessel that had once been an infant he cradled in his arms. No man is ever a hero to his own father - except, perhaps, Indiana Jones.

"There's a card somewhere," Indy went on. "I guess it's in my jacket. A number - a guy you can call any time you need help. He'll do everything," he added wickedly, "except what I do best." His hands ran down across his father's back, reawakening memories of their most recent lovemaking.

"When .. do you have to go, boy?" The gruffness in Henry's voice indicated the presence of emotions he might not ever wish to disclose. Indy understood them only too clearly.

"I don't know exactly. They said I'd get a couple of days' warning - but there's three months training at West Point first. That's soon, probably in the spring. I'll get leave, of course - and I'll be back here afterwards, until they send me away."

"And you were so afraid of telling me this?" The wonder was back in Henry's expression as he contemplated copper strands mingled with the mid-brown of Indy's hair.

"You know how much we hate to be apart," was the subdued response. "And I told them what we've been keeping secret, Henry."

"Marcus knew already," his father reminded him. "Willy Gavrakis knows, now. You told the State Department - it doesn't really matter. I'm not ashamed."

"Dammit, you wouldn't be!" Indy told him, pulling back out of his arms with a look of uncomprehending joy on his face. "You'd walk out in front of a firing squad for me, wouldn't you?"

"Tomorrow, if you like," was the calm reply. Indy hugged him again, more fiercely than before. "So I guess I don't have to ask how Willy came to find out, do I?"

Henry laughed happily against his cheek. "Dear boy," he said, "surely you remember kissing me under the mistletoe yesterday evening?" He made a joke of it, but the serious point behind his words was taken perfectly seriously by his son. "Did you really believe it could have remained a secret after that? As a matter of fact, I found her remarkably sympathetic. She's a lovely girl."

"She is, isn't she? I just wish I'd been the person she wanted me to be - for her sake, I mean."

"And for my sake, my wayward son - I'm glad you weren't."

It was some hours before Indiana had recovered fully from his excess intake of alcohol. He lay, for the greater part of the day, sprawled lazily on the couch by the open fire reading his way through a collection of archaeological journals and drinking coffee provided for him at regular intervals by his indulgent father. Although he showered and freshened up before coming downstairs, the prospect of an idle Christmas Eve with no company but Henry did not seem to demand that he shave or dress, so he lounged around wearing only his bathrobe, his chin blue with stubble and his hair awry, quite the most adorably untidy specimen Henry had seen in years. The only disharmonious note in his appearance was provided by the scholarly spectacles perched incongruously on his nose as he studied the small print. Occasionally he read aloud snippets from the antiquarian world he and his father both frequented.

"Arthur Russell's taking a party to Nepal," he said, one time. "Sounds like something Marion might be interested in."

Henry was standing, idly staring out of the window, his thoughts a million miles from home. "I believe Frances mentioned it to her last night," he said, absently. A car had drawn up outside; Marcus's car. However it was Willy Gavrakis who slid out of the driver's seat and came over to the house.

Henry opened the front door to her, greeted her with a kiss, and ushered her into the living-room.

"And how's the invalid?" she asked, managing to sound like an amalgam of every bullying nurse Indy had ever encountered. "Sobered up, Indy? You gave Henry a hell of a fright, my boy." Jauntily she plonked herself down on the couch beside Indy and handed him a bottle of champagne. "From Marcus," she explained, "with apologies. He'd have driven over himself, but he can't see at the moment."

"Can't see?" Indy echoed, mystified.

Willy chuckled, delighted by his reaction. "He's got a pretty nasty black eye," she said, innocently.

Indy stared past her up at Henry. "You didn't ?" he gasped, only half-joking. "Tell me he walked into a door, or fell downstairs."

Henry didn't answer, but the classic mixture of pride and embarrassment on his face did his talking for him.

"You hit him, you reprobate!" Indy grinned.

"Indy," Willy burst in excitedly, "he belted poor Marcus on the jaw and sent him flying. I wish you could have seen it."

"So do I, honey. Is Marcus okay?"

"Oh, poor guy, he's full of remorse. Gavrakis has offered to send him off to some clinic he knows in Pasadena, to dry out - and I guess Marcus'll take him up on it. He didn't realise what he was doing to you two with his boozing and jealousy, but he knew you were gonna have to be apart for quite a while and I guess he feels he owes it to Henry to clean up his act a bit - so you can both trust him again."

"Poor old Marcus," Henry muttered, wondering how many times in the last forty-odd years he'd made use of the same three words. He always seemed to end up feeling sorry for Marcus about something, even when - as now - Marcus was the cause of his own distress.

"Kyle Benson will be disappointed," mused Indy - but Willy's gaze had settled on Henry's face and she was keenly aware of the welling of emotions inside him.

"Listen, guys, I won't stay," she said, as tactfully as she could. "I guess you'll want to talk. Marcus and me'll be at the Watchnight Service tonight - I told him it'd be good for his soul. Gavrakis won't go; he's Orthodox, when he's anything at all. Reckon we might see you there?"

"Maybe," Indy conceded, with a smile. "Maybe I'll be able to get this old sinner to go along."

Willy laughed and kissed him. "See you later, then, Indy. See you, Henry." She kissed the father, too, and headed for the door.

"Goodbye, Willy ... " Henry watched her leave, buffetted by the whirlwind of her personality, and remained standing, staring after her, until Indiana's hand stole into his comfortingly. Then he recollected his son's presence and gripped back, crushing Indy's fingers.

"Dad? Something wrong?"

Henry glanced down at the hand he held. "Not really," he said, thoughtfully. "You were right - she's turned out to be remarkably sensible. And sensi tive ."

"You know, when the war does start ... things might not be too comfortable for her husband. Stay in touch with them for me?"

Henry moved around to sit beside Indy on the couch. He wasn't happy about the way Indiana seemed to be parcelling up his life and assigning away his responsibilities, although he understood the practicalities that prompted him. There would be plenty of time yet before the State Department sent for Indy, but it was only sensible to have everything prepared well in advance.

He reached out absent-mindedly and drew his son's head down onto his lap, stroking Indy's hair rhythmically. Indy relaxed beneath his father's touch, eyes closing against the firelit gloom of their tiny sitting-room. They'd managed to make their relationship work thusfar, against insuperable odds, and now it was all about to be snatched from them in the name of patriotic duty. The thought of the hundreds of thousands of other men all over the globe who would be called upon to abandon homes and loved ones before the war was over consoled Indy just enough to prevent him rejecting the State Department's plea and dragging Henry off to some remote South American hideaway where they could be together, away from all the demands of the harsh outside world.

"You will be here when I get back?" Indy asked him softly, uncertainly.

"Of course. In your own words, my boy - 'I'm not planning on going anywhere without you'."

"I guess we're stuck with each other, then - 'for better or worse'?"

"That was what your Christmas present was intended to signify, Junior." In the semi-darkness Henry's deep voice dropped still further, into the soft, caressing tone with which he addressed his son at most intimate moments. His free hand parted Indy's bathrobe dextrously and scooted in idle patterns across his chest, soothing and arousing in the same langorous movement.

"Don't call me 'Junior'," Indy whispered huskily as Henry's fingers trailed down towards his thigh. He opened his eyes sharply and reached up to remove his father's spectacles, tucking them under the couch beside his own. Henry blinked like a badger in the half-light, his poor eyesight sufficient only to identify the smiling face of his son close beneath his own. Then Indy drew him down into a kiss of such emotional intensity that it shocked them both, leaving Henry gasping for breath.

"I don't plan to become a statistic," Indy informed him. "I've got you to care about - that'll make me cautious. I'd never risk not coming back to you ... to this."

The firelight picked out the gleam of tears on Henry's cheek. Indy's fingers arrested the falling drops - in thirty years he'd seen Henry cry only a couple of times, and he understood only too well the quiet despair that usually precipitated it.

"Of course, if you happen to believe in Heaven, Indiana," the older man began gruffly, controlling his voice with difficulty, "you come to realise that any parting is only temporary - whether or not Death intervenes."

"You reckon they'd let us in?" asked his son, pretending incredulity. "After this?"

" I have every intention of going to Heaven, boy," his father retorted, with a return of his former courage. "And I expect you to join me there. Unless, of course," his voice wavered slightly, "you get there first."

It was as simple as that, Indy realised. Gigantic, terrifying questions of life and death and the hereafter, reduced to Henry's straightforward instruction, impossible to disobey. 'Join me there.' As if he had any choice!

Indy doubted it would be quite as easy as Henry seemed to think, but just for now he was content to share Henry's uncomplicated vision and allow the matter to resolve itself however it would. Though the Damoclean Sword of parting still hung over their heads its threat was tempered now by the promises they had made one another and by the determination they both held in their hearts.

"Henry, you've got yourself a date," said Indiana Jones.

* * * * *

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