This has been haunting me since the last episode, and even on vacation, I can't get away from it. So, here's my tiny little one-shot to accompany Blye, K. Part 2.

Disclaimer: I clearly don't own these people. But, I'd buy them if they were for sale.

Enjoy!

The pain is nearly unbearable. She staggers into the public restroom at the beach and clings to the sink, bracing herself against wave after wave of agony, knowing things won't be better anytime soon. If anything, they could get much, much worse very quickly. When that shot hit her vest, she had know the man had meant business, and she knew he wouldn't be stopped until one of them was dead. She prays it wouldn't be her.

She wants to sit down. Hell, she wants to lay down. The fear and adrenaline and pain, both physical and emotional are nearly all she can take. Exhaustion stalks her from the other side of the rush she's still coming off of. But she can't rest. She can't give in to the pain. He's out there, and he has to be stopped. She has to find him before he finds her. Her life and her future and her sanity depend on it.

She stares at herself in the mirror, contemplating briefly who and what she is now. She is a daughter who has lost the one man she worshipped. Her personal hero, living in her memory on a pedestal. And then, just like that, Grainger and that file had knocked him off, leaving her shaken and angry, lost and betrayed. She had always known her father's death hadn't been an accident. She had known there was more to it, and that if she dug deep enough, she would eventually uncover the truth. And she was so damn close. But the man with all the answers wants her dead. Dead, like her father and all his men.

She knows she has to suck it up and move on. To get out of this building and find him, and claim those answers she had devoted her entire life to finding for so long. Looking toward the door, she realizes that once she leaves the relative safety of the restroom, her life could easily end in an instant. The man is a trained sniper. It was a miracle he hadn't killed her with the first shot. She wonders if it was somehow a warning. Or if he was taunting her, leading her into something far worse than instant death.

She breathes through the pain, fighting nausea and shock, and thinks about her father. Who was he, really, if he wasn't who she thought he'd been? Is all that intel really true? Had he been nothing more than a government assassin? She can't fathom it. Not the good and honorable man she loved. There has to be more to the story. And only one person can give her the answers. The man who had killed him and his sniper team, and had attempted to take her life earlier. Peter Claremont.

Time is running out, and there's no use in prolonging the inevitable. But before she can leave, she has to do one thing. She takes her phone in hand, trying to control the violent tremors threatening to take her down. She taps out the number she knows by heart, her pulse pounding in her throat. She isn't calling for backup, or assistance from her team. She isn't calling to say she's in too far over her head and she needs help. No, she's calling for one thing. The sound of her partner's voice.

There is something reassuring in hearing that one simple word - "Deeks" - spoken by that one particular voice. And then her name, and the typical "Are you all right?" and his voice growing more concerned by the second at her non-response. That one voice belongs to the one man – the one person – she trusts the most in this world. She listens to that sound, tears welling in her eyes, and she wants to say something back. Something to reassure him, the way he always manages to reassure her. But she can't. The words don't exist.

What could she say, anyway? That she treasures him? That she trusts him? That he's become the one soul on earth that gets her, and makes her laugh, and gives her strength? That if she died today, he would be the one thing she would miss the most in this life? That she hopes he would miss her? That if this was to be the end, that his is the last supportive voice she wants to hear? Or would it be that she knows just by being wrapped in the sound of his voice, she'll gain the strength to face her fears and go fight? That he does that to her, somehow? That even when things are damn near impossible, he makes her take that extra step?

She listens to his voice, her heart aching and pounding, and her immediate future unsure. She no longer knows who her allies are. She no longer knows who her enemies are. But she knows one thing. He is there for her, on her side, backing her up physically and emotionally, no matter what. He never, not once, has questioned her. He has never asked if she is the one killing off those men. It seems he just knows better. And she's pretty certain that if she was the one on a vengeful, killing rampage, he wouldn't care either way. She has a feeling that whether it's back in the bullpen, totally exonerated, or from the other side of a Plexiglas divider at Chino, he will still be there with her, making sure she isn't alone.

She absorbs the last few syllables he speaks, letting them sink into every cell, inhabiting them, letting him strengthen her from within. She swallows back the tears that pool, not because she's grown weak or soft, but because the pure reality of what those syllables are capable of, take over. Even from across the city, even with her world coming apart at the seams, even when all hope is nearly lost, and everything she's ever know to be true is thrown into question, her partner is there with her. And whether it's by physically yanking her to safety, or silently supporting her, she knows he always will be.

With her strength renewed and her focus restored, she ends the call and places another. And as she walks out of that building and into the unknown to face her nemesis, she knows with certainty, that she isn't alone.