A/N: This was a response to an anonymous prompt: "Don't cry," from the "100 ways to say 'I love you'" list. I asked my Tumblr followers if they wanted angst or fluff, and they requested angst. Don't worry, though: I'd warn you if anyone actually died.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my ideas! I hope you enjoy!

Not again.

It's all she can think as the water rushes in, icy and unforgiving. She can't do this again. Only her ankles are covered so far, but she can already feel the water in her lungs, suffocating, clinging, stealing her away from this world. Just like last time. And this time, there's no escape.

"Lucy?" His touch is cautious, a brush of his hand against hers, but it grounds her, for a moment.

"I-I can't-" Her voice cracks, and she swallows hard, tries to find the words she needs, but the water is up to her knees, and she doesn't want to die like this. "Please."

The pained look he gives her tells her everything she needs to know. He can't fix this one, any more than she can. We don't always get what we want.

Before she can talk herself out of it, she closes the distance between them, wrapping her arms around him, and burying her face in his neck. She can't help but be grateful that she's not alone, even though she'd give anything for him to be safe.

The crate they're in is tall enough for her to stand, though he has to bend down a little to fit, but it's barely wide enough for both of them. The water is almost to their waist. Not much longer, then.

His arms come around her, and he clings desperately. "I'm sorry, Lucy," he rasps. "This wasn't meant to happen." He isn't afraid of dying, she realizes, although she isn't sure where the thought comes from. Only of losing her.

"It's not your fault." She can barely concentrate to form the words, but she forgives him, and he needs to know. The last thing he needs is more guilt in his life. (However little time may be left of it.) "It's not. It's mine. The journal told you to bring Emma back."

Because of course Emma is responsible for their predicament. Who else would be so cruel?

He doesn't answer, just holds her impossibly closer, as if he could shelter her from what's about to happen. He's warm and safe and steady, even now. (His breathing isn't quite steady, but he's trying. She can feel it. He's trying to be calm for her, and a few tears slip down her cheeks.)

"Flynn?"

"Hm?"

A thousand words hang between them, confessions left unsaid, and promises they should have made. But the water is almost to the top of her stomach, and their time for words is quickly slipping away. She swallows hard, toying with the material on the back of his shirt. "I don't want to die."

It's not what she means to say, but it slips out, and a shudder runs through him. As if he physically cannot stand to think of her death.

Before he can find an answer, she tugs him down, refusing to let herself think of what this is. (A final act, a last chance. They were supposed to have all the time in the world; what happened to them?)

He doesn't hesitate. At the first brush of her lips against his, he kisses her with frantic desperation. Whether he's trying to distract her, or himself, or both of them, or just take this chance while he has it, she isn't sure. Doesn't care. Just meets him with the same urgency, ignoring the salty tears slipping down their cheeks.

For half a second, he pulls away. "Love you," he says, a broken whisper against her lips, kissing her again before she has a chance to respond. (She isn't sure what she would have said, but she knows what she feels, and she tries to pour ever last ounce of that into these last moments.)

The water washes over both of them, but neither of them acknowledge it, even as the darkness pulls them under. At the very least, they are together.

For the first few seconds after she wakes, she thinks it might be some sort of dream. Or maybe an afterlife of some kind.

There's a blinding light above her, after all.

Then, reality comes rushing in, and she sits up with a gasp. "Flynn?" She's alive. Somehow, she survived. But if he didn't-if he's gone-if he-

"Lucy?" His voice is hoarse but urgent, and he sounds just as confused as she feels.

Finally, her eyes adjust to the light, and she sees him. He's lying on a cot, across the room from her. They seem to be back in the bunker, and by some miracle, none the worse for wear. She scrambles up, and he does the same, meeting her halfway. Looking her over frantically, as if he expects her to vanish at any moment. He grabs her anywhere he can reach-arms, shoulders, face-as he murmurs something over and over in Croatian.

"I'm okay." She wraps her arms around him, forcing him to stop his inspection, and he cradles her close instead. Cups the back of her head, with infinite tenderness. "I'm okay. You're okay. We're okay."

She thinks she might be crying again, and by the way he's shaking in her arms, he is, too.

"I thought-" He starts, but his voice catches, and she cuts in.

"I know. I know. But we didn't. We're okay."

She has quite a few questions about that, but at the moment, she can't bring herself to care. He's here, he's alive, she's alive, and once again, she has survived the icy depths.

He rests his forehead against the top of her head, and she hums, tugging him even closer. Impossibly close. His heart races under her ear, and she focuses on its steady thrum, lets it soothe her like a soft blanket.

They should talk. She knows that. After all, they kissed. He told her he loved her. Neither of those things are just going to go away.

But they've always been masters of the unspoken.

She pulls back just enough to meet his eyes. (They're red-rimmed and glassy, and she gently reaches up, wiping away his tears. "Don't cry," she murmurs. "We're okay.") She watches him carefully, searching for any sign of hesitancy or uncertainty. But there's only relief, hope, and so much trust it steals her breath.

Slowly, deliberately, she tugs him down, brushing her lips over his.

This time, he does hesitate. Just briefly. Goes absolutely still for half a second. Then he exhales shakily, and just... Gives in.

It's everything they didn't have before: Gentle. Searching. Curious. Tender. He toys with her hair, cupping her cheek with his other hand. She hums, resting a hand over his heart, tilting her head in soft exploration.

"Oh, you guys are... Awake. And kissing. That's great and totally not weird at all."

They freeze at Rufus's voice, and she pulls away, but only slightly. (He loosens his hold for a moment, as if to let her go if she wants, but when she makes no move to do so, he wraps his arms around her waist.)

Their poor friend looks seconds away from fleeing down the hallway, and Lucy can't quite stifle her giggle. "Yep! That's… We're awake."

He blinks. Clears his throat. "Good. I should go tell Agent Christopher. About the awake thing, not the kissing thing. Because I'm pretty sure she doesn't want to know about that. I mean, I don't want to know about that, so..."

Lucy smiles gently. "I get it, Rufus."

"Good." He glances at Flynn. "Look, I'd give you some sort of speech about 'If you hurt her I'll kill you,' but we both know I couldn't do that, and besides, I'm pretty sure she's scarier than me."

Flynn chuckles, and she feels it as much as she hears it, a warm puff of breath against the top of her head. "You're right."

Rufus hesitates a moment, before exhaling slowly. "I'm just glad we were able to get to you guys on time. It was close. Too close."

She doesn't want to think about that. Not just yet.

Rufus slips away, giving them privacy once more, and she turns back to Flynn. He smiles, softer and happier than she's seen him in ages. "We should talk," he murmurs.

"We should."

They're both leaning in, grinning ear to ear.

"We have a lot to... Talk about."

"We do."

His response is lost against her lips, as they fall into each other once more.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed! I hoard reviews in my heart like a dragon, for the record. ;)