Challenge #1 (July) - Carousel, Part Four
Okay, here goes...
Title: Carousel Author: celadon_55
Genre: Gen
Characters: Don (surprise!), Nikki, David, Colby - it's a WIP, so who knows who else might show up?
Rating: PG 13+ Warning: violence
Spoilers: Um...Season 5?
Summary: written for Clue Challenge #1, July 2009 athurt_don. Prompts: Who? - Don. What? - Fireworks. Where? - Park.
Part Four
Oh…my…Where…? She stares at the boardwalk, trying to make her mind work, gun hanging heavy in her hand. How…?
Her gaze fixes on the ripples, spreading and flattening. Oh, no. No, no, surely a full grown man should make a larger splash…a bigger ripple…
…and while you’re standing around having a physics debate about it, Nikki, that’s an injured man who could be drowning! She drops into sitting position and rests her gun on the boardwalk, conscious of the need to be quiet, makes a face. She takes a breath and slides in, mouth twisting as the cold wet runs into her boots and weights her trousers. Man. The only thing worse than having to go into funky water blind is going into it fully clothed.
Her feet hit bottom. It's only chest high, turns out - probably a safety measure in case folks tumble in. She stares down into the depths, desperate to see, moving her arms around her under the surface, fighting the urge to splash around wildly and draw attention to their predicament. Going out by bullet or a lung full of water - now there's a Hobson's choice. C'mon, Boss - come on…
The water is murky and deeply shadowed, but deeper down she spots colored lights strung along the walls underwater, adding an eerie glow. She wants to call his name, but that would be disastrous, and who could hear that under water anyway? Especially if you're busy drowning…? What would he do - sink, then float? If the air left his lungs, would he hover near the bottom? And shouldn't there be air bubbles or something? This is where one of those genius types, like Charlie or Larry or Amita, would come in handy. She pictures them all perched along the boardwalk with their laptops, spouting conflicting advice on bodies and water and mass and what-all, and wonders if maybe she's starting to lose it a little. She realizes she's shaking, from the wet cold or adrenaline or sheer terror, and wonders why the heck the FBI ever looked like a better bet than the LAPD anyhow. Majors, my ass. Guess some of us are just better suited to sandlot ball.
There's nothing for it - she's going to have to go under - see if she can see better - see anything. She fills her lungs and closes her eyes. And nearly chokes on a strangled scream when something cold and wet drops on her shoulder.
She whirls frantically, churning water before she can remind herself to be quiet, makes a grab for the gun still resting on the boardwalk. The weight tightens briefly, but that's all. She recognizes the feel of fingers now, tracks the fingers to a hand, the hand to a wrist, and then an arm, projecting from deep in the shadows under the boardwalk. She'd know that damned arm anywhere.
The boardwalk hovers just over her head from this vantage and she ducks under it after the arm, furious. There's an air pocket between the flooring and the water's surface - probably for ease in making repairs. Pressed against the far wall, water lapping at his chest, she can just make him out, the colored lights in the water below reflecting weirdly off his face.
"What the hell are you thinking?" she hisses fiercely through her teeth before she can stop herself. "You tell me before you do something like that! I'm responsible for you!" The irony of the words is not lost on her.
He lets go of her and brings a finger to his lips to silence her. From what she can see, he's actually grinning. Very softly he whispers, "Steal home."
She has more yelling she'd like to do, a lot more, but this isn't the time or place. Instinctively, she glances overhead at the wooden planks. Back to silence, but that could change at any time.
He gestures toward where the water bends out of sight behind them.
Of course, that makes sense - the boardwalk would run the entire length of the Tunnel, and this would offer them a chance of getting by anyone at the other end. If anyone looked inside, it wouldn't take long to figure out where they'd gone, but it would take some time to place exactly how far they'd gotten. If they stay close to the wall and move carefully, it will keep telltale motion in the water to a minimum, especially in the dark. Not a bad plan.
But, damn it, you should have told me. She remembers the insistent hand on her knee and grimaces. Okay - maybe you did try to tell me. And I just didn’t get it. I’ll pay more attention. Wish you'd figure out who and where you are exactly, though - it's like working with some damned tactical savant.
He spreads one open palm against the wall and waits, and she realizes he's waiting for her to go first. She shakes her head to indicate that he should lead - not only because she wants to keep track of him, but because she's not quite sure how he's staying on his feet. The water helps, probably - relieving him of some of the weight of gravity - but it will also sap what strength he has in time, in his current state pushing him, even, to hypothermia. She turns her back on him and he could collapse and slide underwater before she notices. Yeah, that one would be fun to explain. Sure, AD, I found SAC Eppes and all, but then I let him drown in the Tunnel of Love. Whoops.
Okay, so they’re on a time limit then, and not just because of the guys with the guns. She needs to get them out of here - someplace dry, where he can be still and she can try and contact help. He’s leaning his good shoulder into the wall now, and she suspects it’s not only to use the wall as a guide.
I take back about you being a sweet kid - you're worse than trying to keep track of a roomful of four-year-olds. Bet your Mom had a head of grey hair by the time she was thirty. She sighs silently and jerks her head to indicate they should get moving. This being in charge is definitely not all it’s cracked up to be.
She lets them make a little distance before she tries whispering again, just to reassure herself. “You’ll tell me next time, right? If there’s something I need to know?” She cringes at the way the nearby water amplifies her voice.
He frowns at her, puzzled, then nods. She smiles and pats his good shoulder, urging him on. The bare shoulder protruding from the tactical vest feels like ice. She scowls.
How long is this damned tunnel anyway? And what the heck is the point of this dumb, antiquated Tunnel ride these days? Sure, it made some sense in the good old days, when folks couldn’t even hold hands in public, but these days you can practically do the nasty right in the Midway without anybody thinkin’ anything of it. No reason at all for this slow old bucket of nonsense.
The water may be relieving gravity, but pushing against its resistance is tiring too and he stumbles more than once, sending her heart into her throat. She considers sliding under his arm to support him, but the boardwalk is too narrow to conceal them beyond single file. His steps are dragging now, shoulder so tight against the wall that it looks like its trying to push through the other side.
Wish I had some way of knowing how far we have to go.
She’s just about to suggest a pause to rest when the shoulder skims abruptly downward. She just manages to clamp her mouth on a cry, grabs for the back of his vest to stop his descent. He snatches for the smooth surface with his palm, hangs there for a moment. Then she can feel him stiffen, winces as his forehead drops to brace wearily against the wall and keep him upright. They hover that way, fighting for equilibrium.
She touches his back questioningly and the returning smile seems a little more forced and dim, but he straightens some and takes a dogged step. She doesn’t have to see his face to know what it’s costing him. But what choice do they have? She can’t leave him here. Wish I could shake the idea that I’m killing you by trying to rescue you.
He stops so abruptly that she almost plows into him; freezes, because she hears it too. She listens hard for a repeat, and there it is, a small sound, magnified by the water.
The faint creak of board overhead.
TBC