A/N: Thanks for the kind feedback. I guess I should have been clearer, Patty - I didn't mean it was light-hearted, because it isn't. I meant it was rather slight as to plot.

One

She huddles, still and silent - listening. She hears nothing buried under the wail of the calliope, the rustle of the almost invisible seats spinning and dipping, stiffly horizontal with centrifugal force. Her hand hovers over her mic, toying with the idea of risking contact with Sinclair and Granger, then drops. She isn't quite ready to risk it, not without knowing where Don is and whether or not someone - someone who is not a Special Agent, that is - has discovered him first. Besides, let's face it, it's the first question Sinclair and Granger will ask her, and 'beats me' is not an answer likely to impress. Oh, no one will blame her, exactly, but she's not in the mood to be the rookie screw up this week. That's what she tells herself anyway as she uncoils, readying for her next move. She can't sense any movement, but what if these guys have infrared scopes? She has no doubt they have brains, because turning on that ride was a pretty smooth move. And it also makes it clear that they know this place better than she does. She runs nearly doubled over, doubles back at a zigzag almost immediately, stalking shadows.

Hold on, Boss, she thinks silently. I'm coming. At least, I hope I am.

The black-on-black shadow of the twirling cup ride looks like a good place to catch her breath and reconnoiter, and she poises herself there, next to its hulking bulk, eyes trying to pierce the landscape. Don is wiry, and he literally flew, but he still couldn't have gone that far. She needs to swing around the kiddie roller coaster and check over there, or get closer to the flying seats – see if he could have rolled underneath somehow.

There is an ominous creaking noise right next to her, like a metal beast lumbering to life, and she is moving again before she even consciously records the cup-seats beginning a slo-mo twirl. Her lungs squeeze flat against her clavicle, leaving her airless, but she runs anyway.

Can they SEE me then? Or was that random? And where the hell are Sinclair and Granger anyway, taking a spin on the goddam Ferris wheel?

She ducks into the curve of the kiddie roller coaster track, lets her head hang, hands on knees, panting open-mouthed but as silently as she can manage. Okay. Okay. You're doing good. Part of her brain is praying for a friendly crackle from the radio, part of it is terrified that it will actually happen and give away her position.

On the other hand…she pauses, newly aware of the whoosh of the twirling cups. On the other hand, these rides coming to life isn't all bad, if she's careful. They're loud. They move. They could be a kind of cover. In fact…she shifts herself just slightly out of the sheltering protection of the roller coaster track. Nothing. So either this ride is run from an individual switch, or they can't see her, or…they're trying to keep her off balance. And doing a fine job of it. No gunfire, though. Not conclusive, but worth noting.

She stays underneath the track, just in case, at least for as far as she can manage, until it slopes too close to the ground to allow her passage. She hides herself among the support struts then, looking, for gunmen or, more importantly, for Don. Why the heck don't these guys make a run for it, anyway, while they have the chance? Unless Sinclair and Granger have them pinned down somehow?

Still no gunfire. Maybe they have given up and gone home. She's loathe to see them get away, but finding Don, dead or alive, feels more pressing. She's half-tempted to test the quiet, but pauses guiltily. Going off half-cocked is something Don is always trying to cure her of, so right now resisting the urge seems like the least she can do for him.

See, Boss? You'd be real impressed. So you just damn well better be alive, cause I'm not wastin' all this self-control for nothin'.

Vision suddenly compromised, she blinks hard, glaring into the darkness. And none of that stupid girl stuff, neither. No time for that. Sinclair and Granger catch you like this, they'll just laugh their asses off. Okay, maybe not Sinclair - I got a hunch he watches chick flicks with a box of tissues handy, but I ain't ready to test that theory either.

She blinks harder, glare deepening ferociously. She is focusing on getting herself under control and it takes her a minute to register what she is looking at through the criss-cross of the roller coaster struts. What the heck is that? Some kind of sign, or…? Her heart picks up pace, beating noisily in her ears.

Letters. Pressed low against the struts. No "F", but that is a "B", and at least part of an "I"…

She is crawling forward on her hands and knees before the thought even has a chance to finish, hands reaching through the struts, fingertips brushing the unmistakable fabric of a tactical vest. She stretches further, tries to touch the skin of his neck to feel for a pulse. Her fingers fall just short.

"Boss…" she hisses, as loudly as she dares. "Don. It's Nikki. Can you hear me?"

Silence. She can't tell a thing from this side, in the dark. Breathing? Not? She needs to get to the other side so she can see his face, see how he's hurt, tell if he's breathing, if his heart is beating…her vision blurs again, she feels the dampness slide down her face and off her chin, but she doesn't care any more. Screw Sinclair and Granger anyway.

She is crawling still, mindless of the fact that she can conceivably stand, finds the closest section of track to soar back upward and pulls herself through. She tells herself that she needs to be more cautious, to wait, to listen for gunfire, smiles when she realizes that that is really Don's voice in her head, lecturing her. So you just hang in there, Boss, cause I wanna hear that lecture with my ears. I ain't carrying you around in my head for the rest of my life like some whack guardian-nag angel.

Still on her knees, she hugs the side of the track, fingers tracing the struts as a guide. Ahead, she can just make out the light color of the textured soles of a pair of combat shoes. As soon as she can reach, she grasps one, fingers curling around the toe. She barely swallows a sob as the shoe shifts under her hand, drags herself forward until she can rest a comforting palm on the hip not pressed into the dusty ground.

"Hey. Hey, it's me. You okay?"

More silence.

She's out in the open now, so despite her impatience, she forces herself to move carefully, stealthily. How's that, huh? Can't wait to tell you about it.

She's pulled herself around now, until she's on the other side, near his head, so that they can both keep tight against the struts. It's poor cover, but it's better than nothing.

"Hey…" a tiny bit louder. She can get a shadowy glimpse of his face now. To her surprise, a faint glimmer of light shows her that his eyes are open. "Hey. Boss. Don. Can you hear me?"

His eyes blink, and she sees his brow furrow. She lays a hand on one side of his face, grimaces at the sticky wetness that instantly coats her palm. Swearing softly, she sees the light glance wetly off of his hair, realizes that dark spots she assumed were shadows are glimmering streaks across his forehead, masking one ear. Matching streaks on the struts reflect what little light there is.

She draws a deep breath. "Wow. But you're alive. Guess all that jive about your thick skull wasn't joking, huh? How you feelin'?"

He blinks again, sucks in a shallow breath.

Keeping her voice low, she tries again. "Come on, Boss - you're scarin' me here. Talk to me."

He fixes his eyes on hers, wide and unfocused, swallows.

"Sorry." Barely a hiss of a whisper.

She smiles.

"…but I was wearing my batter's helmet. Honest, Mom."

TBC