Author's Note: Peyton's partner Cameron Grant is modeled after the actor Chris O'Donnell who currently stars as special agent G. Callen on the CBS drama NCIS: Los Angeles. Once again, thank you to my incredible beta and bestie, Ayshen for all your help with this fic.

Chapter Two: The Sound Of White

(My silence solidifies,

Until that hollow void erases you,

Erases you so I can't feel at all.

But if I never feel again, at least that nothingness

Will end the painful dream, of you and me

If things get real down here, promise to take me to

Before you went away, if only for a day.

If things get real down here, promise to take me back to

The tune we played before you went away)

- "The Sound Of White" - by Missy Higgins

Peyton couldn't breathe.

Her chest was painfully tight as she struggled to suck in air, the world blurry around her. Her eyes flew open, completely unseeing as her fist clenched at her blanket.

Damn it.

Her eyes slammed closed as she forced herself to focus on anything but the sheer panic surging through her blood and nerves. She chose her hand to focus on, reminding herself to unclench the fabric of her blanket from her own white-knuckled grip. Once she accomplished practically tearing the blanket from her grip, her shaky hand brushed damp waves of chestnut hair from her sweaty forehead.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Remind yourself it's not real.

But it was too late; the nausea was already creeping up her throat. She was hyperventilating and with a whimper, she threw herself out of bed and stumbled toward her bathroom; just barely making it inside before her stomach revolted. She was lightheaded and knew she was on the verge of passing out if she didn't get the retching and her harsh breathing under control.

But that was the problem, wasn't it? She needed to be in control, and she wasn't. She couldn't find the strength, the wherewithal, the focus to bring herself back. Her chest burned as she rested her head limply on the toilet seat, forcing herself to suck in a breath despite the fear and helplessness that was consuming her, and then she silently counted to three before releasing said breath. She repeated the process over and over until the lightheadedness passed, and she felt like she could lift her head without collapsing.

God, she hated this.

Panic attacks.

They weren't new, but the last time she'd had them on a regular basis – like she was now – was when she was twelve and her mother died.

She felt her stomach stop rolling (finally) and raised her head tentatively. When she didn't immediately bend her head forward again, she took it as a sign and twisted herself until she could rest against the wall. Slowly, the burning in her chest eased as her breathing steadied to a more normal pace.

The headache that came next, however, wasn't a surprise. But that didn't mean it still didn't hurt like a bitch. Honestly, she'd rather be shot in the shoulder all over again, then have to go through another panic attack. But the last thing she wants to think about is, why she's having them on a regular basis again. Because six years ago when she was still in Hawaii, she sure as hell wasn't.

It could have been minutes or maybe even hours later, but eventually she felt human enough to push herself up and stumble toward the sink on heavy legs. Reaching for her tooth brush, she refused to look at herself in the mirror as she rid her mouth from the bitter, acid taste of her own vomit. Her legs were shaking and any second, she knew, they'd give out; so she braced herself against the counter.

Tears were leaking from her eyes and she just let them roll down the sculpted planes of her cheek bones, not having the energy to fight them like she normally would. A few strangled sobs escaped her throat before she stumbled back into her bedroom, body sinking bonelessly into her mattress and legs tangling themselves in the mess of her sheets and blanket.

Sleep doesn't come and she hates taking pills, and her mind immediately flashes back to a conversation from over six years ago that still feels like yesterday.

Flashback

"It's Tylenol, Peyton." Chin says, exasperation lacing his normally calm tone. "I'm not asking you take Vicodin or Demerol."

"And I told you," Peyton snaps, voice raw and scratchy from all the dry heaving and retching she had done minutes earlier. "I don't like taking pills to help me sleep. I'll be fine, I've gone through this sort of thing before and I came out just fine without a pill."

"This sort of thing?" The normally unflappable man scoffs and shakes his head. "A panic attack isn't something you joke about; even if you could give Wonder Woman a run for her money on a daily basis. So humor me, please," His voice is gentle and warm, his hand reaching out to brush the damp waves of hair from her forehead. "And just take one Tylenol. I mean come on," He cracks a rare smile, which always sends her stomach tumbling in the best way possible. "You don't want me to go and break in a new partner, do you?"

"You'd drop me for not taking some stupid pill that isn't even going to help?" She skeptically arches a perfectly tweezed brow, but her golden flecked hazel eyes tell the truth; they're searching, rapidly flicking over every inch of his face and dulled with the fear that he isn't joking.

His stomach twits just like his heart from the look in her eyes, but he shakes off the feeling. "I didn't drop you when you went into that Yakuza warehouse without back up, and most importantly without me, did I?" His onyx gaze his steady, unwavering compared to the frazzled look in her doe eyes. "And if I didn't request a new partner then, why would I now? I just want you to be healthy and have a clear head when the morning comes, so you're fully capable of doing your excellent Wonder Woman impression."

"Give me the damn pills." She grumbles, shaking her head. "Jeez, Kelly, you really know how to lay it on thick, don't you?"

"We're partners, Keller." He smiles again, affectionately bumping her with his elbow. "Looking out for each other is what we do. I've got your back, and you've got my back, right?"

"Always." She answers softly, humbled by the intensity behind his gaze.

End flashback

It feels like he's there, firm and calloused fingers, stroking the bare skin of her arm that her tank top doesn't cover. Sinking further into the mattress, it isn't the softness that she feels, but the hard strong lines of his body. She doesn't smell the detergent and fabric softener on her sheets; instead his smell of rich sandalwood and the saltiness of the ocean, fills her nose.

And it's all so real, she swears that if she opened her eyes, his onyx eyes would be staring back into hers.

She endures a restless sleep, haunted by the memories of a partnership and if she's being honest – a man – she hasn't let go of. The shrillness of her phone ringing by her bedside at – five AM – pulls her into the land of the living as she reaches for the device.

She gives her standard greeting, "Keller," and for one desperate moment she holds her breath, hoping in vain, to hear the low, warm vibrato of his tone.

But she doesn't, and she's able to release the breath that's straining her chest. Instead it's the lower and darker tone of her fellow Marshall (yeah, he's technically her partner; they don't work with anyone else and it's ridiculous, but even after four years she still can't refer to him as her partner, even in her head) Cameron Grant.

"Get ready to roll ASAP." He says. "Stan wants us in by six; we have to catch a flight to Honolulu with a witness by seven."

In an instant her whole world, stops spinning. She's holding her breath all over again and somehow a strangled, "What," crawls out of her throat.

"Don't worry about it; I'm pulling up to your place right now. Just get dressed and I'll fill you in along the way."