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Indiana Jones was acutely aware that his fresh shirt was already sticking to his back. After a day spent chasing a museum thief through the Paris catacombs, he had been fantasising about the steak frites he planned to order from his favourite brasserie.
Unfortunately, rather than seated in a Parisian eaterie, he was hurrying across the courtyard in front of the Louvre - hungry, running late and trussed up in his smartest dinner jacket. Good thing he’d thrown it in his case at the last minute, thank you Marcus. Adjusting his tie, Indiana descended the steps down into the museum’s statue-lined main hall where a large crowd of his fellow archaeologists and art historians were gathered to celebrate the unveiling of the museum's latest acquisition for temporary display; the Voynich manuscript.
He hated these sorts of pretentious events, where the focus was on boasting about accomplishments rather than good honest academic discussion. There was really only one way to make it tolerable - he grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray and downed it in one gulp.
After making the expected round of hellos and as much polite conversation as he could stand, Indy found himself standing with a woman who taught at Sorbonne and insisted on chewing his ear off about the hidden symbolism in Da Vinci’s Saint John the Baptist. I had an easier time escaping Pankot Palace, he thought gloomily, surreptitiously glancing around for an excuse to leave the conversation.
“Ah Dr Jones!” A familiar male voice reached him through the noise, followed by the deputy director of the Louvre, Jacques Jaujard. Indy felt the champagne souring in his empty stomach. He liked Jacques and had spent the entire cab journey there dreading the prospect of informing him that the Voynich manuscript that this whole event was in celebration of had slipped through Indiana’s fingers. That Indiana had failed, again, in keeping a piece of history out of the hands of profiteers.
Mumbling bathroom-related excuses to the Sorbonne professor, he fled before Jacques could reach him through the crowd, taking the stairs two at a time. He tried to block out Jaujard’s voice calling after him, the shame overwhelming. He shouldn’t have come this evening, should have kept up the chase until he had his hands on the manuscript.
You can’t win ‘em all, Indiana…
Now in self-imposed exile from the party, Indiana wandered the labyrinthian hallways halfheartedly trying to remind himself of the nearest exit. Poring over old paintings with a magnifying glass in a stuffy gallery wasn’t his thing but being in the presence of so much history was still intoxicating and he found himself enjoying the luxury of time to just look at everything rather than racing past it in pursuit of the next find.
As Indy peered around the recently refurbished Escalier Daru, he spotted a familiar cream-suited figure standing at the top of the stairs gazing up at the imposing Winged Victory of Samathrace. He paused at the foot of the staircase in surprise. Had they really forgotten all the trouble Belloq had caused the last time he set foot inside this museum?
I just hope they nailed everything down this time.
Gears started to turn in his brain. A theft from the Louvre and here was Belloq, at the scene of the crime the very same day. This couldn’t be a coincidence. Surely Jacques would know to never to invite him, even if he’d only briefly glanced at Belloq’s file.
He just doesn’t know how to deal with him, not like I do.
Indy took a few moments to think about his opening shot. It wasn’t everyday that he had the element of surprise.
“I reckon even you would have trouble smuggling that out of here,” he said finally, walking up the stairs to stand shoulder to shoulder with Belloq.
“You underestimate me,” replied Belloq, irritatingly unruffled by Indiana’s appearance. “I was thinking of hiding her under my coat.”
Indiana turned to glare at him, “Jacques would have you thrown out if he knew you were here.”
“Oh he knows. And he also knows I’m good at what I do.” Belloq turned from the statue to give Indy a look, “Perhaps he doesn’t always trust you to get the job done, Dr Jones.”
Indy laughed humourlessly. Took a breath. Then grabbed Belloq by the lapels and propelled him towards the nearest wall. The Frenchman made a noise of protest as he was shoved bodily up against the hard stone, grabbing at Indiana’s hands and trying to prise him off.
“Look, Jones, you know I do enjoy the occasional bit of manhandling but really-”
“What are you doing here? And where is the Voynich manuscript?” Indiana demanded, shaking the other man roughly.
For a second Belloq looked baffled but then the knowing smirk appeared that Indiana hated so much. “Oh Jones, don’t tell me Mrs Voynich’s beloved book has gone missing on your watch?” Indy growled, his grip tightening. Belloq’s smirk grew. “What a shame. But I’m afraid I can't claim this one, old friend. Until this morning I was in Algiers, having nothing to do with missing manuscripts of any kind.”
While it wasn’t like Belloq to not claim his victories, it had to be a lie.
“As for why I am here, I was invited to this delightful soiree to celebrate my beloved Musée du Louvre’s new acquisition. And to spend time with my…esteemed colleagues of course.” Belloq leaned into Indy’s grip, moving their faces perilously close. His eyes were the same piercing blue as he flicked his gaze down to Indiana’s mouth.
I hate him I hate him I hate him.
Indiana surged forward to close the inches between their lips and kissed the man he loathed. Belloq groaned low in his throat and pressed up against him, one hand around the back of Indy’s neck and the other delving under his jacket to pluck eagerly at his shirt buttons.
It had been a year since their last encounter - sliding against each other in the back of a dusty truck after Indiana had chased Belloq down to retrieve a stele in Gizeh. They’d both been sweating and filthy and Belloq had snarled at him in French the entire time while Indiana gripped him tightly by the hips, sucking a bruise into his shoulder. Indy had never come so hard in his life.
It was an unsettling realisation to admit to himself. That he was glad to have his mouth and tongue on the other man’s skin again, his hands on a body he’d both hurt and held, discovering new scars like hidden artifacts.
They kissed deeply until Indiana started to become light-headed with arousal, every item of clothing on his body feeling so restrictive he wanted to tear it all off. He pulled at Belloq’s belt buckle, attempting to open it one-handed. A hand reached down to stop him.
“Indiana” Belloq drew his head back. Indy insistently chased his mouth, lips meeting his chin instead. “Not here…”
“Why not?” replied Indiana, lost in the warm haze of arousal. He ran his tongue up the bare length of Belloq’s throat and grinned when he felt the other man shudder. Why shouldn’t they fuck in the museum, his fuzzy brain supplied, they were archaeologists afterall…
“I have a hotel room nearby. It will be much more comfortable than hard stone.”
Ah, not the Montmarte flat then.
Indiana felt himself pushed back, trying not to fall over his own feet as Belloq surged past.
"Come on Jones, hurry up."
Slipping out of the Louvre had been much easier with the other man tugging him along by the arm to the nearest side exit. The cab journey back to Belloq’s hotel passed in charged silence, Indiana keeping his hat firmly in his lap.
To distract himself, he watched as they drove past throngs of Parisians wandering the streets in search of drinks and dancing. War in Europe was brewing but that didn’t seem to be slowing down the Paris denizens from living life to the full. The evening was warm and restaurants were spilling out onto the pavements, diners knocking back glasses of wine as the sun slowly set. He tried not to think about Jacques back at the Louvre, drinking champagne and fretting about the missing manuscript. Or Marcus, worrying that he’d had no telephone call with good news.
He risked a glance at Belloq, who was uncharacteristically silent and studiously gazing out of the opposite window.
A twinge of panic fluttered at the edge of Indiana’s consciousness. He’d let his guard down and gotten into a car with his enemy, who was almost definitely involved in the Louvre theft and could be taking him anywhere in the city to have him beaten up or worse. Of all people, he’d let himself be seduced into danger by René. When did he start letting the other man have this effect on him again?
Last time it was your paper, this time it’ll be your life, he scolded himself.
By the time they reached the entrance to a stately hotel, Indiana had worked himself up to sprint away as soon as the car was stationary. But as the driver was getting out to open their doors for them, Belloq quickly slid a hand under Indy’s hat and squeezed. All thoughts of running away flew out of his brain.
Groaning, Indiana slumped back against the sofa and let his head flop into the soft cushion. He felt boneless in a way he hadn’t in months, every limb warm and heavy. Basking in the glow, he heard shuffling near his feet and cracked an eye open to watch René shakily stand up and pad over to the bathroom without a word. The door clicked shut and the sound of a running faucet started.
Indiana supposed this was Belloq’s subtle way of telling him their time was up and it was back to business as usual - fighting tooth and nail out in the field. Taking the hint, he rebuckled his belt and did up his shirt buttons. As he pulled on his dinner jacket, Indy considered searching for the manuscript but quickly discarded the idea - Belloq would never have brought him to the hotel room if this was where he was hiding it.
The brass of the doorhandle was cool in his grip as he made to open the door to leave. He hesitated. Curiosity blunted his instinct to flee the scene. The sound of water running stopped and the bathroom door opened.
“René…are you hungry?”
Belloq turned on his heel, his eyebrows raised as if in surprise to find the other man still there. Indy felt a small thrill at having thrown him a curve ball but the other man recovered quickly. “Am I hungry? I... Don’t flatter yourself Jones, that fumble wasn’t anywhere near athletic enough to build up an appetite. But if you’re looking for a suitable brasserie, I can recommend the local sewer. I’m sure the rats would be delighted to host you.”
Indy scowled and gripped the door handle tighter, post-coital glow extinguished. Give Belloq an opening for a jab and he’d land the blow without hesitation. How many times had Indy learned this lesson? A glutton for punishment, his father might have called him. Ah. Just thinking of his father made him bristle further.
“Forget it, sitting across from you would ruin my appetite anyway,” Indy snapped, stuffing one hand in his suit pocket. His other hand was still gripping the door handle. Why couldn’t he just turn the thing and leave?
Belloq’s smirk dropped and his eyes narrowed from mirth to suspicion, “Indiana Jones, were you actually about to ask me to dinner?”
Indy was starting to regret ever breaking the silence but he was in it now, might as well keep digging. “Well why not? We’ve gotten meals together before. It’s dinner time, we’re in Paris, I’m hungry and..I assumed you would be too so…”
While he’d been speaking, Belloq’s expression had progressed from suspicious to incredulous to thoughtful, his head tilting to one side. Indiana held his gaze, refusing to back down. It was always Belloq that proposed their dinners, mostly so he could attempt to extort Indiana in a public place where Indy was less likely to punch him. After what felt like a painfully long silence, Belloq finally smiled, sharklike.
“Then how fortunate it is for you that I have no other plans for this evening – a rare occasion. Very well Dr Jones, I’ll keep you company for dinner. On two conditions.”
Indiana let out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. Belloq’s smile widened and he continued, holding up two fingers, “One, I pick the restaurant. Two, I pick the wine.”
Relieved and secretly pleased that he wasn’t going to have to make any further decisions this evening, Indy nodded in agreement. “Fine with me.” Eager to leave, he finally turned the door handle and gestured to the corridor outside. “Lead on then.”
Pursing his lips, Belloq shook his head. “Well not yet. If we’re going out for dinner I’ll need to change.” He gestured down at himself as if to illustrate the obvious. Indiana blinked, still holding the door open. Despite their earlier activities, Belloq’s cream trousers and shirt were pristine; if he straightened his tie and put on a jacket he could quite easily have wandered out of one of those fashion magazines Indy’s students pored over instead of their text books. Even during their time at Sorbonne, René had been concerned with appearances – sometimes turning up at digs in linen suits and brogues, then complaining back at the tent as he buffed dirt out of the tan leather while Indiana lounged on a dusty cot nearby, laughing. The happy memory stung and he squashed it down. Rekindled his annoyance instead.
Indy pointed at his own rumpled suit. “It doesn’t matter, just grab a jacket-” he started to protest but Belloq was already marching through the suite to his bedroom, shedding his shirt and tie as he went.
Sighing, Indy shut the door and flopped back down on the sofa to wait.
Twenty minutes later, he found himself seated opposite Belloq, who was freshly dressed in a dove grey suit, in the corner of a low lit restaurant. The other man had led them on a winding route through the lamp-lit streets of Paris to an unfamiliar hole in the wall, tucked away behind a locked door, a password, and Belloq’s chosen fake name.
There had been something surreal about exploring the familiar city together, Indy snatching incredulous glances at Belloq’s profile each time they passed under a street lamp. This was his mortal enemy, what was he doing? He should have been safely holed up back in his hotel room by now, with a chair tucked under the door handle and his revolver next to his pillow now that he knew Belloq was in town.
So you’ll come down his throat but get the jitters about an evening stroll? Indiana had chided himself, then felt hot at the memory.
While the waiter poured their glasses of the expensive red that Belloq had immediately chosen, Indy glanced around at the room of male diners. Velvet curtains were draped around the small restaurant to give the patrons privacy but the conversations were still mostly hushed, further drowned out by a pianist next to the bar. He wondered how often Belloq came here. Did he bring other men? Wine and dine them, then take them back to a hotel room to fuck? Or were these strangers allowed back to his flat to stay the night?
He looked back at Belloq, who was watching him closely. Indy coughed and tried to stealthily dry his palms on his pant legs.
“So, this is your favourite place huh?”
Belloq swirled the red wine in his glass thoughtfully.
“I wouldn’t go that far. But bringing you here does mean I am free to do things like this.” Indy almost jumped when he felt an ankle brush against his own. Belloq's small smile betrayed nothing, while Indy could feel his cheeks starting to glow red. It was odd, he realised, to be extending their ceasefire beyond the bedroom. It had been so many years since he’d been in public with Belloq doing anything other than menacing the man.
“Please relax, Indiana, and choose your meal. I promise I won’t tell the chef to add any…extra ingredients. Excusez-moi, monsieur-” the waiter appeared with a notepad in hand and Belloq gestured to Indiana, who hadn't bothered opening the menu.
“Steak frites, s'il vous plaît.”
They spoke abstractly about archaeology while they waited for their food, conversationally circling each other like dogs in a pit. But on an empty stomach the wine quickly went to Indy’s head, and Belloq was as charming and silver tongued as he remembered. As their plates were set down in front of them, he grudgingly admitted to himself that he was having a much better time than if he’d stayed at the museum party.
“Do you remember,” Belloq asked calmly, as if he wasn’t still rubbing the side of his foot up and down Indy’s calf while he ate dinner, “our nights at La Rotonde? I will never forget that evening when you were stumbling around drunk and knocked Picasso’s glass of wine into his lap.”
Indy groaned and ducked his head, mumbling, “all over his sketchbook, actually.”
Belloq threw his head back to laugh and slapped the table, a harsh sound in the quiet of their velvet corner, “Of course! Well he deserved it, the hack. Cubism! Such rubbish.”
Strange. How vividly Indiana suddenly recalled the smell of claret as it spilled a red river across the table. The wide eyed shock, then scrunched up anger on the artist’s face. René’s same sharp laughter cutting through the background piano music. There he was – younger, brighter, his blue eyes twinkling, hair nut brown and curling around his ears. Later that night, Indy would run his fingers through those curls back at their shared flat as they stripped each other naked in front of the window overlooking the city.
I think I could have loved him then. Indy put his fork down, appetite suddenly disappearing. Too late now.
Belloq took a sip of wine, a knowing smile crinkling the corner of his eyes as he watched Indiana reel back through time, “ah, those were the halcyon days no?”
There’s a game being played here – he never brings up the past. Time to put a stop to this.
“Sure. And then you ruined it by stabbing me in the back.”
“Quite so,” agreed Belloq but a tightness had replaced the pleased crinkle around his eyes and his foot had stilled against Indiana’s leg.
He placed his wine glass down and clasped his hands together on the table. “May I remind you Jones that you invited me out to dinner. The least you could do is make it a pleasant experience, as I am attempting to do.”
Feeling back in familiar territory, Indy leaned across the table, “René, there is never anything pleasant about the experience of dining with you. I should have checked out the sewer afterall.” The instant the words left his mouth Indy felt the wine and steak in his stomach start to curdle. For whatever reason, Belloq had been doing his best to make the evening pleasant and Indiana had found himself starting to relax and yet…the insult was almost instinctive. Indy couldn’t recall a single gentle word that had passed between them since Sorbonne. Even during their trysts they snarled and pushed each other around. Any rare moments of softness were silent, communicated only through touch that was an echo of happier days.
Belloq didn’t miss a beat, sighing dramatically and sitting back in his chair. “And here I was, almost feeling generous enough to give you some information. I’m sure Mrs Voynich will be very disappointed not to have the manuscript returned to her since she so generously loaned it to the Louvre.”
“Well it belongs in the museum anyway- ” groused Indiana, then lowered his voice as the other patrons started to peer around their velvet curtains in their direction, “ and I knew you had something to do with the theft. You’d think I’d have learned by now…René Belloq in Paris at the same time I’m chasing some thug with a stolen artefact through the catacombs?”
Belloq’s look had gone from amused to icy. “I know perfectly well what I am, Indiana Jones.” He said quietly, “I don’t need your usual holier than thou sermon. Nor your tiresome insistence that history belongs anywhere in particular.”
Indiana glared at him but Belloq continued, his voice hardening.
“As I’ve said before I do not lie, unless it is a profitable exercise. Now will you get it through that thick skull of yours that I had nothing to do with the disappearing manuscript"
“Bullshit.” Indy jabbed his finger across the table, “You scheming french weasel.”
There was a loud scrape of chair legs on the wooden floor as Belloq stood up, a furious expression on his face. The conversation around them stopped suddenly. “This is the last time that I will bother to accept a dinner invitation from you.” He hissed, “Go find your rats, Jones. And tell Jacques he can do better.”
The other diners, scandalised that this was clearly evidence of some affair, immediately began to whisper amongst themselves. Belloq turned to leave, generously tipping their shocked waiter with a handful of francs as he strode by.
“René, hey, hold on!” Indiana surged out of his seat, crashing his knee against the table leg and knocking over an empty wine glass. Rummaging in his wallet, he threw down a large handful of cash and raced out after the other man to the scattered cheers of some of the drunker patrons.
“We’re not finished!”
He shoved aside the velvet curtain hiding the exit just in time to grab Belloq by his arm and pull him away from the door. The Frenchman stumbled back and collided with Indiana’s chest. Indy wrapped an arm around Belloq’s waist and used his superior height and strength to hold on as the other man twisted like an angry snake.
“Why must you continue to pester me Jones-” Belloq snarled, shoving hard at his shoulders with both hands. “You are acting very peculiar this evening and I do not have an interest in playing your silly game tonight.” He squirmed harder, only succeeding in getting them further tangled in the curtain.
“I’m not playing games, René, but I think you are. I know you still have the flat in Montmartre,” Indiana said, digging his heels in to avoid getting pushed back into the restaurant, “so why did you get a hotel room?”
Belloq stopped struggling and looked up at him, eyes narrowed.
“What kind of ridiculous question is that?”
“You never show up for these museum events - you don’t care. You’d never bother to be in the city if there wasn’t business to be done.” Belloq’s body tensing in his arms encouraged Indy to soldier on, “the manuscript is at the flat isn’t it? That’s why you don’t want me there.”
Business, it’s all just business with him.
Belloq’s laugh was harsh and humourless. “Bravo Dr Jones,” he snapped, grabbing onto Indiana’s lapels, “just like your infantile attempts at research, you have once again come to a conclusion so far away from correct I would be laughing if you were not trying to squeeze the life from me. Now let me go.”
Belloq’s refusal to own up to the truth when he was so often happy to rub his triumphs in Indy’s face made him pause.
If he doesn’t have the Voynich manuscript then why…
Oh.
“You knew I was coming to the Louvre today, didn’t you?”
“I suspected you’d be on the invite list, nothing more than that,” said Belloq carefully.
They stared at each other, still locked in their peculiar embrace, half tucked into the curtain. Belloq’s hands were no longer tightly gripping his lapels and there was an uncertainty in his eyes that Indiana hadn’t seen since their college years. The angry tension in their little velvet liminal space had dissipated but in its place was something so heavy and long awaited that Indiana felt woefully ill-equipped to handle it now that it had finally arrived.
This was about me… Indiana grappled with the unfamiliar thought. All this time it had never been about him, about them. Even during their heady youth at Sorbonne, which ended catastrophically with René’s betrayal. Then the ensuing years of trying to get the better of each other in the field: helping, sabotaging, rekindling their intimacy instead of resorting to fists. Snatching moments together in dingy hotel rooms, trucks, tents, wherever they had enough room to get their hands into each other's trousers. Burning off their animosity after a day or three of trying to kill each other. What even were “they” after all this time?
“I can’t believe Belloq ordered my death.” Indy had said to Bey-Faisel. If nothing else, it would ruin René’s fun to lose the only rival that matched him. Or at least mean he’d have to do all the work himself.
Indiana thought he knew René better than anyone else, and that included the belief that René’s priority was always himself.
But now what. He was here for Indiana. No stolen artifact, no scheme, no shady business. What was Indy supposed to do with that knowledge?
“We should go back to the flat René.”
“I-...Yes…you remember the way, don’t you.”
After the frantic fully-dressed experience in the hotel room, they took their time in René’s bed. Gentle was so foreign that remembering how to do it felt strange, nostalgic, and Indy was surprised to find he was as unsure as he’d been fifteen years ago. They moved together side by side, René’s back pressed against his chest and the other man a familiar hard heat in his hand. Indy buried his nose in the greying curls behind René’s ear. It was as good as he remembered. No, better – now he had the thrill of watching a man who would one day probably be the death of him stripped completely open to the core.
Afterwards, they sat tucked into the window seat looking out at the view of Paris, knees brushing and passing a glass of scotch back between them like they were students again. The lights of bars and restaurants twinkled below, and the Eiffel Tower stood tall across the Seine. René had lit a cigarette and cracked open a window after Indiana complained, rolling his eyes as Indy flapped at the smoke.
“Surprised you kept this place,” said Indiana quietly, glancing around at the familiar flat. It looked a lot more polished than he remembered - expensive editions of books lined the shelves, statues and priceless vases were dotted around on polished tables. Not lived in but cared for, a curated space for René to entertain guests. Who he was entertaining, Indiana felt better not speculating about.
René himself made a noncommittal noise, gazing out the window as he smoked.
“Still the best view in the city,” added Indiana, sipping at the admittedly very nice scotch.
René pulled a face, his nose wrinkling, “except for the iron eyesore, of course. I still haven’t forgiven you for forcing me to scale the wretched thing to - what was it? Ah yes, admire the skyline.”
“René, you must be the only Frenchman in Paris with no sense of romance,” sighed Indy. Fleetingly he thought to propose climbing it again as an activity for tomorrow. But thinking about the next day made him feel a bit sick. Besides, taking René out on a date after everything that had passed between them felt ludicrous. And there was still the matter of the missing manuscript…
He must have looked forlorn, because René reached out to pat his hand then took the glass of scotch back. “I didn’t steal the manuscript,” he said suddenly, tapping ash into the tray he’d perched on the window sill.
“I know,” replied Indy, and was surprised to find he meant it.
They sat in silence. Indiana ran his hand up and down the curve of René’s calf, waiting.
“But I do believe I know who will buy it. And-” René took a slow drag on the cigarette and blew a trail of smoke out of the open window, “I would be lying if I said I hadn’t considered being involved…”
Indy nodded, relieved that his instincts about René hadn’t completely failed him.
“I thought as much. But why are you telling me?”
René shrugged, “I like Jacques, he’s no fool,” another drag on the cigarette, “and the buyer is a complete connard. I shall be very satisfied if you go and knock out a few of his teeth.”
“That’s it, you’ll give me the name? No bag of cash required this time?”
“Mmmm, I think I got what I wanted in return,” replied René, rubbing the ball of one foot against the hard plane of Indy’s stomach.
Indiana found himself chuckling in disbelief. René watched him with a shrewd look on his face.
“Have you considered my offer, Indiana? We could do great things together, you know I’ve always believed that. My brains, your brawn” René dragged his eyes up the length of Indy’s body for emphasis. “It could be like this all the time.”
One little nudge, to push me out of the light.
“You’d hate it if I said yes,” replied Indy eventually, "you'd resent me for making it boring for you.”
René considered this then stubbed out his cigarette in the ash tray with a sigh, “Jones, you know how I hate the rare occasions when you’re right. Like a broken clock.”
They looked at each other. René’s expression, illuminated only by the low light of a brass floor lamp in the corner, was unreadable but Indy knew what he was thinking - they were at the same impasse as always. Too far gone for nostalgia to touch them, neither willing to budge. And so it would go on as it had, racing and fighting to get to the next archeological marvel. To the victor the spoils.
But if they’d get times like these in amongst it all, Indiana could work with that.
“So…" he said, "what happens now then?”
René smiled at him, the lines around his blue eyes softened in the lamp light. He set down the empty glass on the window sill and folded forward into Indiana’s arms.