How we all wished the opening scene of linchpin had gone.
I recently revised this to have a better flow.
Disclaimer: own nothing, make nothing.
Time Management
by SpillingInk
It had been ten, maybe twenty.
Second attempt. He would surface any moment now, gun in hand.
Right?
Then again, third time's the charm.
No. They didn't have a third chance.
Why was it always cold?
Industrial freezers. Bay water. Always frigid, always together.
She jerked the seatbelt, bucked her hips; struggled against the panic as the water crept over her waist, seeped through her clothes, icy death like a ticking bomb. Tried to gauge the rate at which it climbed her frame; tried to discern how much time was left, how much space, how much air, tried to use the numbers to calm herself down.
It wasn't encouraging.
She stopped to listen; spoke his name. The stillness answered, and a new kind of panic welled up within her. She loosed a hand, waved her fingers through the water - searching, praying for at least a brush of fabric: maybe a belt, maybe an ear or a shoulder. Maybe a reassuring squeeze, a brush of his fingers against hers, a butt of a gun pressed solid into her palm. Anything.
Anything but what she found, which was nothing. This time, his name was loud across her lips, desperate, the noise swallowed in the small space between the roof and the blackness.
She couldn't keep track - had it been thirty now? Or forty?
He always came through. Always figured it out, always kept her warm.
Her legs were numbing, her fingers stiffer than before. It was higher now, over her chest; everything was dark, darker – too far below the surface for daylight, too far for hope.
No. There was always hope. They both believed in magic. He'd taught her. So many things.
But it was silent. The water didn't gush and bubble anymore; it just lapped gently upwards, sinister and caressing and rendering her weightless as if it desired to take her softly. She held her breath for a moment, listened for a splash, for his roar of victory, for his voice...anything. Listened for hope.
It had to be past forty now. Maybe even a minute, maybe more. How was he still submerged? Why had he not come up for a breath - given himself a chance?
Because he was too intent on finding hers.
She snapped, refused to go out this way. She'd rather take another bullet; rather die in the line of duty. Her arm smashed against the window pane, she grabbed her left fist with her right hand and twisted, throwing her knees to the right and her shoulders to the left; struck with her elbow as she shoved with her palm. The silence was shattered by her desperate splashes; the sounds muted by deep, deep water and the tiny space her car had carved within it.
It touched her chin, the cool icy ripples, upset at her movements. She gasped, pain in her arm, aching in her heart.
She took a final breath, sealed her lips against the silky ocean, closed her eyes as it kissed her lashes. Sound muted as her ears were sealed, transformed into a distorted silence that was both alien and familiar. Still she fought, clawing at the unrelenting buckle, twisting and bucking against restraint and time and the fate before her. The panic was uncontrollable now: she wasn't even sure which way was up, or which way was out. Her hands flailed through the thickness and found the steering wheel to orient herself before she struck at the window again with open palms.
Out of options and out of time, she returned to the wheel; fiercely clutching her symbol of control, staring into oblivion.
It had been well over a minute. Or five. Or ten. Or an eternity.
Her logical brain thought of their position: engine down and filling with water - thought of how there was still air near the back of the car, enough to save himself if he would only breathe.
Her subconscious brain thought of how she'd once taught a class on buckling up for safety; how she'd explained that seatbelts save lives.
And as her lungs began to feel tight, squeezed; she gave up, relinquished control, let herself drift in the terrible silence. And wondered if water in her lungs would hurt as bad as blood in her lungs; wondered if drowning was as terrifying as falling to the earth with your sternum shattered into your heart. And she saw his face over her, heard his words again, his confession of love; saw his face in a dozen places, a dozen expressions – saw his family, her family–
Percussion smashed against her ears, muted thumping and a flash of lightning at her eyes. Her lids slammed shut as the salty water clawed over her corneas, shut out the searing light in her brain.
She had no idea how long it had been.
She knew she had time. And knew that he didn't.
More flashes of lightning, punch after punch of shock hitting her eardrums - on the second or third she felt her seatbelt tighten across her chest; he was grasping the top, a hand shoved her head to the right and she leaned away from the door, watched the flashes as another round of percussion scrambled her brains-
And suddenly she was free, the restraint floating away into the blackness; suddenly his hand was hauling on the collar of her jacket, dragging her backwards between the seats even as her legs kicked out against the dashboard.
She reached over her head, felt the roof passing by her face, found the edge of the back window; grabbed and pulled even as he shoved her from below.
He should be first. He should have taken a breath.
She shed her coat as she rose, frantically kicking and pulling at the water with her arms. Her clothes were cumbersome; they dampened her movements and retarded her ascent. The darkness was getting lighter, there were sunbeams - but they were so far away; so ethereal as they flickered, tantalizing and promising and urging her upwards. She risked a glance down; saw his shadow directly beneath her, rising strong, perhaps even faster and surer than herself.
They would make it.
Her lungs hiccupped: she refused to open her airway - they shuddered, squeezed, and still she clenched her jaw, pressed her tongue into her palate to alleviate the demanding pressure in her chest. The burn flickered, ignited within her; contrasted the chilling glide of water on skin. Pinpricks began decorating her vision, the effervescent surface was blurring, tunneling until all she could focus on was one spot, one circle of hope in a world of fire and ice and tingling, numbing muscles.
She broke; gasping, sputtering, heaving - treading water as her vision cleared, her lungs sated themselves, and her muscles relaxed from their frenzied climb. Blinking, she searched in front of her, spun around to give herself a panoramic view of the water's surface.
And her heart broke within her, ice searing through her veins, panic roiling her insides.
He had run out of time. It had been too long.
A sob choked out even as she gathered her lungs, filled her being. He had made a deal with the darkness and traded his chance for hers.
It wasn't ending this way.
She dove into the salty silence, legs kicking skyward as she strained her vision in the murky waters.
There.
A shadow, directly beneath her - still twitching - but curled up, beginning to recede down into the depths. She found his collar, reoriented her direction, thrashed against the fates until she felt air again, until his face was clear of the frigid waters. Even then, she merely changed direction, struck out towards the nearby pier in a stroke she had learned years ago in a lifeguarding class at a community pool.
Somehow, she found the ladder. Somehow, she had the strength to brace herself under his sodden body, to ascend the ladder with him draped across her shoulder, knees at her chest, face in her back. Somehow she managed to flip him over the edge as she steadied herself between the rungs on trembling legs.
She had read about super human strength. Heard about everyday fathers flipping cars to save their children, wives lifting the impossible to remove crushing weights from their husband's bodies.
She'd always wondered how that could happen; how the physics permitted it.
Now she knew.
If you cared enough - if enough of your heart would die if you failed - you could do it.
She placed a foot on either side of him; sank to her knees as she placed her hands on his chest, hovered an ear near his mouth. Two fingers found his jugular, her hope splintering at the chilled quietness beneath her fingertips.
She laced her fingers, braced her elbows, sank her weight into his sternum; tried not to panic at the water that bubbled from his lips. Tilting his head, she pressed his nose between her fingers and sealed her lips over his, her wet tresses spilling about them in a private cocoon as she poured out her soul, pressing the air from her lungs into his.
Once. Twice.
She laced her fingers once more; knew the chest compressions would keep the blood flowing, keep him alive, restart his diaphragm. Bring him back to her.
She didn't lose track this time. She counted, knew exactly how many had passed.
One two three, two two three, three two three...
She watched her hands; concentrated as she compressed his chest two inches deep, saw droplets falling from her nose and scattering across her knuckles. Only a few at first, but increasingly more until they fell at regular intervals with her compressions. She needed him.
She needed him to rewrite the ending.
...Eight two three, nine two three, ten two three.
Leaning over again, she grasped his nose and claimed his mouth, forced her panicked breaths under control so she could be strong for him, so she could give him the volume he needed.
On the second breath he sputtered.
She reacted immediately, straightening and replacing her palms on his sternum, just in case he needed another kick start; just in case his lungs needed further encouragement.
But he was strong; his diaphragm clenched and she helped him roll over as the ocean poured from his chest, as his breathing battled his coughing for dominance, as his body fought for a rhythm and tore him to shreds in the process.
And as much as hated the struggle, she rejoiced in it.
She lost count again, lost count of the seconds or minutes or hours that passed until he opened his eyes and steadied his breathing; until he rolled onto his back to gaze at her, blinking moisture away from his lashes.
And she could finally breathe again.
Biting her lower lip, she swiped at her eyes before smoothing her palms across his abdomen, over his chest, settling on his shoulders as she leaned over and pressed her forehead into the curve of his neck, lips at his collarbone, breathing deeply and letting her weight sink against him in a release of tension.
She said something, reprimanded him somehow; empty threats that hinted at her desperation and relief. Whatever she said, he found it amusing, chuckled softly into her.
And that was so good, too good, and she was trembling, shaking, gripping his shoulders and trying to breathe right as she turned her head to listen to his heartbeat beneath her ear, feel the rise and fall of his ribs against her chest.
Now she knew. Now she knew what it was like for him, watching her die in his hands on a grassy stage beneath a perfect sky. Now she knew why he had said those words.
Because you never knew when you would run out of time.
And as they struggled to their feet - as she gripped his sodden shirt, as he wrapped her against himself and whispered reassurances into her ear - she said them.
Maybe not aloud, maybe not so he could hear, but she said them. In her heart, she knew she loved him.
And this time, she wouldn't lose track of time. It was too precious to waste.