I have been waiting to share the last scene of this chapter with you for AGES.

Enjoy!

Jessie, Ngama, and Simon stood out in front of the lodge.

"Did he say who was bringing it?" Simon asked.

"No, and I did not ask," Ngama shook his head. "But it would be someone my father trusts. He would not hand his life's work to even an agent of your government."

"I still don't get why Doctor Zimbati didn't come himself?" Jessie asked. "He's friends with Doctor Quest, isn't he?"

"Yes, for now I believe that is true," Ngama acknowledged, and Simon caught the steel under the calm exterior. Simon might not be a Sentinel, but he was an astute judge of people and he knew repressed anger when he saw it, even in such a collected young man.

"I'm sure your father would be here if he could be," Simon said carefully.

Ngama shook his head. "My father is a good man, Captain Banks. I trust he means well. But he and I disagree fundamentally about what it means to be a Sentinel. He wishes to help Jonny because, among other things, he owes him a debt. But he does not want to face the possibility that my Sentinel senses are not what he has believed. He is a very stubborn man."

Simon felt a pang. Ngama was wise and patient and intelligent and loyal – these things were clear. How could any father not be grateful to have such a son? And even more, how could any father be so caught up in his own beliefs that he could not acknowledge a truth that was actually better, healthier, more positive for his son? Simon thought of Daryl and promised himself not to be so narrow-minded.

But he only said, "I'm glad for whatever help he can offer," and he put a hand on Ngama's shoulder. The way the kid leaned into Simon's touch told him more than any words.

Jessie was as still and calm as she'd been through all of this, but she did glance around a little awkwardly. Simon couldn't blame her. From what he understood, she and Jonny and Hadji had been practically joined at the hip for years. When there was trouble, they had always turned to one another. But now Hadji was inside sitting with his Sentinel and trying to talk him through a dangerous and debilitating cure for an even more dangerous condition. Even if Jonny wasn't awake, Hadji had been speaking to him softly and coaxingly for the last several hours while they waited. Clearly Jessie wanted her boys back at her side. Bandit was whining regularly at her feet as if to emphasize the point.

"I hear it," Ngama said suddenly, and Simon and Jessie looked up hopefully. It was a handful of minutes, though, before the small government car emerged from the woods and stopped before the lodge. Agent Fritz had sent one of the DHS guards to the military airstrip to pick up whoever was delivering Doctor Zimbati's materials, and as soon as the door opened and the courier scooted out, the agent disappeared.

Jessie blinked. "It's you!"

Simon had expected…well, he wasn't sure what he had expected. Not a girl no older than Daryl with an electric blue streak of color in her dark hair though. She was petite, her skin the warm golden brown of a native Hawaiian, and her round face split with an impish smile at Jessie's surprise.

"Nice to see you, too. I know I'm not the obvious courier here, but mom didn't want to trust anybody else, and even if I don't know Jonny, he was her patient, so she's all kinds of protective. But she can't get away or lose months of work, so I'm the next best thing," the girl answered brightly. She held out a box the size of a small suitcase marked with medical symbols. "Doctor Zimbati included instructions as well as several doses and he talked me through it too."

Simon frowned at the girl. Before he could say anything, though, Ngama took a step forward.

"Thank you. I am Ngama. I appreciate your willingness to deliver this for my father."

"Nice to meet you," she replied. "My name's Kaimi. My mom is Doctor Waihee." She frowned slightly for a moment. "I...get the feeling things with your dad are a little complicated. He, uh, he didn't really..."

"Do not let it trouble you," Ngama assured her, putting a hand on her shoulder gently. "What he and I have to resolve will come in its own time. But I did not know that you..."

"Me, neither," Kaimi shrugged, but her eyes never left Ngama's. "It was mom's idea."

"Who is this Doctor Waihee anyway?" Simon wanted to know.

"We met her when we stopped in Hawaii on our way back from Borneo," Jessie explained, taking the box and leading the way into the lodge and down to the medical area below-ground. "Doctor Waihee helped us when Jonny got sick the first time." She frowned suddenly. "But you never told us she was your mom when we were there."

"You never asked," Kaimi smiled a little as she fell in alongside Ngama. "Besides, I was just looking after the dorm for the summer. It's not like we got to know each other."

"So you know what to do with whatever's in there?" Simon asked, bringing up the rear of the procession and using his greater height to keep an eye on the three kids before him.

"Enough," Kaimi said. "I'm not a doctor. I'm going for psychology when I enroll. But I've lived with mom long enough to know about remedies like this one, so it should be pretty straightforward."

"Kaimi," Jessie paused at the door, "the thing about Jonny…"

"Don't tell me," she interrupted, holding up her hands. "I already got this lecture from mom. Doctor Quest showed up out of the blue with his son that sick? And then whisks him away just as fast after a few really interesting brain scans? And then I get a ride on a military plane in a car with windows so dark I couldn't see anything all the way here? No," she shook her head. "This is something big and at this point I don't need to know. It's okay. I get it."

"You seem to be very comfortable with this situation," Ngama commented, looking sideways at her.

Kaimi shrugged. "If there's one thing I've learned from my mom, it's that the patient always comes first. In this case, that patient is Jonny, and whatever's wrong with him is wrapped up in a whole bunch of secrecy. I'm not going to do him or anybody else any good by getting in the middle of that. Besides," she smiled at Ngama, "I can tell that whatever it is, it's nothing I should be worried about."

"How do you know that?" Jessie asked.

"I get a feeling about people sometimes. And you guys? You're good people."

-==OOO==-

Hadji's first thought was that his neck ached.

"Come on, Hadj. That can't be good for your back."

"I am dreaming," Hadji thought he said aloud. "I know I must be, for there is no other explanation."

"Going to have to open your mind a bit, then."

Hadji straightened up from where he realized he had made a pillow of sorts for his head on Jonny's bed. As he moved, the chair in which he had been for most of the last day slid backwards and he almost toppled but for a familiar and steady grip that caught his shoulders and kept him from overbalancing and slamming into the ground. Hadji looked up into Jonny's eyes.

"My friend." It came out a whisper. He took a breath and tried again. "Jonny, you are awake."

"You noticed that and you're not even a Sentinel!" Jonny teased gently. He smiled. "Yeah. I've been awake long enough for whoever that doctor was to declare me a miracle of medical science and go running to tell somebody. Howitzer, I hope?"

Hadji nodded. "Yes. Doctor Mui came in when we contacted Agent Fritz to help extricate you from the Cascade hospital that was not prepared to deal with your…unique physiology." Then he cringed. "I should have been awake for you when you recovered."

"You were awake when it mattered," Jonny said softly. Hadji tipped his head curiously.

"I do not know what you mean."

"I heard you," Jonny said. "I heard you for what felt like forever when I was kind of floating in the dark. You told me all about what had happened, what the doctor was doing to help, even about getting that sap from Ngama's dad to try to fix the damage from the drugs. I heard all of it."

"Remarkable," Hadji said. "I am not sure there has ever been such a well-documented case of unconscious awareness before." Then he looked more critically at his brother. "And how do you feel now?"

"Fine, actually," Jonny said. "Doctor Mui? She said that I should have been dealing with the poisoning for a lot longer. A lot longer. But something about my weird Sentinel body looks like it purged that stuff a lot faster than normal. And whatever that tree sap Doctor Zimbati sent does, it did it in overdrive, too. She wants to run a few more tests, but she basically gave me a clean bill of health! We have got to get a stash of that stuff!"

Hadji grinned brilliantly, his joy unrestrained as it almost never was. Impulsively, he threw his arms around Jonny and hugged him for a moment. When he spoke, it was with reverence. "I am so glad, Jonny Quest. I am so glad you are all right."

Jonny stiffened almost imperceptibly in his arms, and Hadji drew back in surprise. "Jonny?"

"I am fine," Jonny said stubbornly.

Hadji frowned. "But…?"

His brother sighed. "But…I think my senses are completely turned off and I don't know how to turn them back on."

-==OOO==-

"Okay, people. I'm only going to say this once," Simon said firmly. He glanced around the bullpen until he had every eye. "Our little arsonist has really upped his game. He could have killed a number of people in that computer building on campus, including some friends of mine, and we're all lucky there weren't worse injuries. We're going to nail this guy before he hurts anybody else."

Around the bullpen people were nodding. Daryl sat solemnly in the chair beside Rhonda's desk – he had watched the news coverage of the fire at Rainier from two nights ago, and had seen Jonny and Hadji pulled out covered with soot. It made his chest hurt with some mix of anger and fear, and more than ever he understood why his dad was a cop. Daryl wanted to fight back, to protect his friends.

"Taggart, you're taking the lead on this," Simon said. "Ellison and Sandburg are still out on private business. Rafe, Brown, whatever you've got open right now, hand it to Rhonda and she'll reassign it. I want the three of you to find this guy before he strikes again. Where are we on that?"

To Daryl's surprise, his father was turning to him. He coughed once before he straightened up. "Um, well, you know about the computer program Jonny and Jessie and Hadji set up for us, right?"

"Yes," his father nodded, urging him on.

"Right. Well, it finished running over the weekend. And there's a lot in it and it found a lot of things, amazing stuff I didn't know any computer could do!" Daryl caught himself and forced himself to slow down, "I came in yesterday and added the university fire to the variables."

"You came in on a Sunday?" Joel asked, surprised.

Daryl nodded. "Yeah! Of course I did!" He didn't dare look at anyone's face, but from the nodding he could see in his peripheral vision, he was encouraged – they understood how it was personal to him now. "But, anyway, it identified the most probable neighborhoods the perpetrator might be going to and from based on the times of each fire, the bus route, and the probabilities and demographics of the people who ride the bus at different times of day."

"Good work," Simon approved with a real smile. "Print out whatever you've got and hand it around. Taggart, the mayor is pissed, and Rainier University is furious. Most of the people who were in the building are awake and coherent, so we need to see if they saw anything. We've also been given a basic psych profile to work with. Put as many uniforms on the street as you need and start to canvass the area. Maybe somebody knows who has cause to be that mad at a college computer science building."

He paused and then took a breath. "I probably don't need to remind you that arsonists like this tend to escalate. We've gone from a small blast at a coffee shop to half a department store to an entire building, and that last one had people in it. We need to find this guy and stop him now before we're picking bodies out of the ashes. Get going."

Simon strode to go back into his office – he had some calls to make, mostly to reassure people that his team would end things before they got to that point.

"Captain, a minute?" Joel asked. He didn't even wait for the okay, just followed Simon into the office and shut the door.

"What's up, Joel?"

"Where are Jim and Blair?" Joel asked bluntly.

"I can't tell you that," Simon deferred.

"Don't give me that," Joel crossed his arms before his chest. "Things haven't been normal since, hell, since the kid went into that fountain."

Simon cringed at the memory of Blair, dead and drowned, and then somehow alive again.

"Something is going on. I'm a detective, Simon. I can read between some of the lines here. I know what was on the news about Blair's dissertation. And then this business with a Foundation run by Benton Quest. And now the Department of Homeland Security? And Jim and Blair…"

"Jim and Blair what, captain?" Simon asked sharply.

Joel looked like he was going to say something, but he suddenly let out all his air and backed down. "They should trust us," he said finally. "And you should, too."

Simon sighed. "Joel, I give you my word – I would if it were mine to tell. Frankly, I think you'd be better at dealing with this stuff than I am. But for now, I can't break a confidence like that."

"I understand, sir," Joel said softly. "Just…tell them that for me, will you?"

"Sure," Simon nodded. As Joel turned to go, he called him back. "And Taggart?"

"Yeah?"

"Whatever you're thinking, it's a lot bigger than that. Thanks for not pushing the issue with anyone."

Joel nodded and continued back to the bullpen where he began giving orders. Behind him, Daryl peeked in the door.

"Dad?"

"Come on in," Simon invited, privately glad to put off his phone calls a few more minutes. As Daryl sat down, he said, "You did good out there, son."

"Thanks, dad." Daryl knit and unknit his fingers together a few times before he asked, "Is everybody okay? Is Jonny okay?"

"Yes," Simon nodded. "I made sure of that. I stayed an extra night just in case they weren't being straight with me, but it looks like everything's going to be fine."

"Who was that girl?"

Kid's too perceptive for his own good, Simon thought to himself. He'd offered to give Kaimi a ride to the airport for her early morning flight back to Maui once it was clear the sap was working, and he'd only paused at the house long enough to grab a clean shirt to change into at the station. He'd idled the car in the driveway, but apparently Daryl had seen them.

"Her mom's a doctor," Simon answered honestly. "She sent something to help Jonny. Something new. Kind of experimental."

Daryl nodded. "Because the normal treatments wouldn't work for Jonny, would they?"

Simon sat up a little straighter. "Why do you say that?"

"Dad," his son said exasperatedly. "I'm not stupid. Joel's not the only person who is noticing something weird going on here."

"Well, go talk to him about it then," Simon grumbled. He regretted it at once. "Sorry, son. But, Daryl, you have to understand, there are things I can't tell you."

"Yeah, I'm starting to get that," Daryl nodded. "Don't worry about it." He rose. "Do you know when Jonny and Jessie and Hadji and Ngama will be back? Today maybe?"

"Probably a few days," Simon answered. "They wanted a little more time on their own."

"Okay," Daryl said cheerfully. "I better get back to work."

"Yeah, you do that." Simon waited until Daryl had closed the door before groaning.

Great. Now I've got two of them. I pity any Sentinel who tries to avoid their questions this time around!

-==OOO==-

The jungle was burning.

Jim watched, horrified, as flames tore trees apart, ripped through the underbrush, brought the proud, silent forest to ashes. Before the wave of fire, animals fled in terror, crying out in their pain. A few seemed familiar, but every time he tried to look more closely the fire rose up and hid them even from his Sentinel sight.

"Blair!" he shouted. "Sandburg! Where are you?"

"He is not here," came a familiar voice. Jim turned to see Incacha watching him solemnly.

"Why? What's going on?"

"Still you deny your Guide, and still you block from him his own role. For as long as you stifle his powers, you alone will dream, and you are not the one meant to understand."

"What do you mean I'm denying my Guide?" Jim asked. "I've acknowledged him. He even sees the spirit animals now, better than I do."

"You must open the door of your mind to him," Incacha said. "You must allow him to draw you beyond the sixth step. Only then will he reach the Seventh Door."

"Sixth step? Seventh Door? What does that mean?" Jim demanded.

"It will be too late if you wait to release your Guide to his destiny for him to receive that which he should already Know. So I give his message to you. Enqueri, your tribe needs you or this will be their fate." He gestured at the fire. "Open yourself to your Guide and grant him his strength. And protect your people, Sentinel. Or they will die."

Jim sat up gasping for air. He blinked at the brightness of the room. How could he have slept so late? He opened his hearing and immediately found his partner, apparently already awake and talking earnestly with what sounded like most of the local Sentinels; from the sounds of it, Blair had turned down the white-noise machines a lot. I wonder if they can handle it yet. But with Blair down there, they'll at least give it a try. His eyes moved to the door and he spotted a note slipped underneath it into his room. He didn't even need to get out of bed to read it.

"Went downstairs to talk shop. You were really out of it! I figure you needed the sleep. Come on down whenever you're ready. Blair. PS: Did you see your phone message light blinking? I think that means you should check it sometime, big guy."

Jim snorted and climbed out of bed, finding a tray that had been brought in along with some vaguely warm coffee. He really must have been asleep to not have noticed anything.

But that dream...

Jim forced it to the back of his mind with the ease of much practice. He might have decided ignoring dreams like that wasn't a good idea, but he was in no hurry to try interpreting it. Dreams where he got scolded by Incacha never seemed to end well.

As Jim ate and readied for the day, he became increasingly aware of the conversation his Guide was having downstairs. Already he was neck-deep in talking through Sentinel senses, and if that faint scratching noise was anything to go by, at least four people were taking notes.

"So, Sentinel Ellison does not need you to keep him grounded by touch?" a male voice asked.

"No," Blair answered. "It helps sometimes, don't get me wrong, but if I'm not there he can handle it just fine."

There was a murmur of surprise, and from the comments Jim assumed that meant these Sentinels had been trained to depend on at least one person physically anchoring them to keep them from a zone. And Sandburg was right – it was easier to avoid zoning with his Guide's hand on his shoulder or arm, but it wasn't necessary. It just...felt right.

"Let's try an example," Blair was saying, and there was some shuffling as he urged a Sentinel to her feet and began taking her through an exercise.

Jim was tying his shoes when he realized that he was starting to feel that powerful, burning protective, almost possessive feeling he tended to associate with bad incursions on his territory. He could almost hear Blair telling him to stretch out and figure out what he was subconsciously picking up that was troubling him. He listened more closely and finally caught a whispered conversation in another corridor, apparently where two Sentinels were standing guard over the ballroom at a distance.

"He says Professor Guide is his Guide," one said to the other, "but he treats him like a conscript."

"Ivan says they are joined, but the bond feels weak to me. She says they have the potential to bond even beyond what she did with Commander Ilja. She says it is because Sentinel Ellison does not know if he truly wants his Guide in his soul."

"Well, if he does not, I hope he releases him. Professor Guide is one I could happily give my own soul to if he would take it."

Jim's vision whited out on the rest of the conversation and he found himself charging downstairs in a state near to a rampaging bull. He unerringly found his way to the ballroom, and if the other Sentinels, not to mention Benton and Race, were alarmed at his crashing entrance and dire expression, they opted to stay out of his way rather than confront him.

But when he stood before Blair, Jim's burning anger seemed to vanish. Instead, he wanted to take back the dramatic entrance and pretend nothing had happened. No such luck.

"Jim, what's going on? Are you okay?" Blair asked, stopping in mid-sentence and looking to his friend.

"I'm fine," he answered shortly. Then, because he had to say something, he elaborated, "I had a dream and I think I should tell you about it."

"Oh. Okay. Can it wait?" Blair asked, gesturing to the assembled Sentinels.

"No, it can't," Jim said decisively. An instinct he could not ignore boiled in his gut and asserted itself. "Come on." He actually grabbed Blair's elbow and began heading back to his room, virtually ignoring the surprise of his audience as well as his Guide.

"Man, this must be serious," Blair commented as he was half-pulled up a few flights of stairs.

Suddenly Jim felt foolish again. Like hot and cold, once more the urge to pull his Guide away from those other Sentinels and...do something...he didn't really know what...had ended. Now he was standing at the threshold to his room, his Guide looking very concerned at his side, and he had no idea what to do next.

"Maybe...I don't know," he said awkwardly. "Maybe it's nothing."

"No way, man. Not with that stunt you just pulled. So spill. What did you dream?"

Jim turned to go into his room. "Never mind. We can talk about it later or something. Sorry I yanked you away from your lesson down there."

"Man, what is going on with you?" Blair practically slammed the door shut behind him as he stalked into the room after Jim. "Honestly, I thought we'd put this whole routine behind us!"

"It's not..." Jim began, but he ran out of things he was willing to say and fell silent.

"No way, Jim," Blair shook his head. "No, you promised. You promised me you wouldn't shut me out of the Sentinel stuff anymore! If something's going on, you need to tell me about it! Are you having trouble being around all these Sentinels? Is it a thing like with Alex again, because Ivan did say..."

"This isn't that!" Jim denied sharply. Even as he said it, he was starting to understand some of what Incacha had meant in the dream. Some of what he was still holding back. And he still wanted to hold it back, thank you very much. It was one thing to acknowledge that he might be possessed of strong, throwback instincts and emotions – it was another entirely to face and accept and admit to them.

"Oh, there some other big pressing engagement I missed while we're out here?" Blair crossed his arms. "Because unless you've suddenly developed an allergy to sterile hotels, I think you're out of excuses!"

"Stop! Just stop it!" Jim squeezed his hands into fists – it was either that or cover his ears like a child.

"Stop what, Jim?" Blair's anger abated at his partner's clear distress. "Jim, buddy, talk to me!"

Jim turned away to where he could see out the window to the still, blue-green sea. He swallowed thickly to fight the urge to shout something designed to get Sandburg angry and hurt and, therefore, less likely to pry and more likely to leave. It was his default reaction, but this time he just couldn't stomach the idea of it. Not when there was a roomful of other Sentinels downstairs, and even if he was connected to Blair, the idea that that bond could be broken and Blair could go elsewhere – no. Just no. But the truth...that wasn't a whole lot better. He needed another way.

"It's like..." he began slowly, "it's like when I got my '69 truck."

Blair actually twitched in confusion sharply enough that Jim could hear it without Sentinel senses. "It's what?"

"Shut up and listen," Jim snapped. "You want to hear this?"

"Yeah, I really do," Blair answered softly.

"So, it's like when I got my truck," Jim said again, not looking away from the sea. "It was...perfect. I mean, you can read all the books you want, you can test drive all the cars in the world, but there's only one car that you find that really, you know, clicks with you. And it's not about what it looks like on the outside or whether it's the newest model."

"O...kay," Blair said hesitantly. "Trucks. I can do that." He thought for a moment. "So, why don't you tell me why you did pick your truck, then?"

Jim felt himself smile a bit with relief. "It had all the basics right, the engine, the brakes, the shocks. You know, the stuff that gets broken or worn down if it isn't cared for. But lots of trucks had that. There was something...comfortable about it, about the way it fit me. It wasn't brand new, it had seen something of the road, so all the stiff parts had been worked loose and I wouldn't have to feel too bad if I got a new scratch on it." He stopped. "But I never wanted to scratch it."

"Jim, are you still talking about a truck?" Blair asked. His question was ignored.

"When I brought that truck home, do you remember what I did next?"

"Before or after you forbade me from ever driving it?" Blair asked wryly.

"After," Jim said with a snort.

"You washed it, man. Scrubbed it until even all the dirt you can see was gone."

"It was more than that," Jim said. He didn't turn around, didn't let himself think as the words poured out. "I...got used to it. I felt every inch, got myself acquainted with every dent and imperfection. You'd probably say I imprinted it or something. I made it so I'd know that truck blindfolded and numb from the neck down. I got comfortable with the truck inside and out, so there wasn't a square inch I wouldn't recognize."

He looked over his shoulder without actually moving to face his partner. "Have you ever noticed that I've never zoned while I was driving, no matter how late at night or how boring the drive?"

"I guess," Blair shrugged. "I never really thought about it, though."

"When I'm driving that truck, I'm completely aware of it. I'm listening to every single piece move, to every part of the engine. I can feel the road almost like I was touching it with my hands because I know the difference in how it feels under the tires. I'm watching the gauges, every hair twitch of them. The mechanics hate me because I make them calibrate them to a ridiculously high precision. But it matters because I can tell the difference. When I'm driving, the line between me and the truck is practically gone."

"Um, I'm hearing the words, but I'm still not getting the meaning here, big guy," Blair admitted when Jim fell silent for a few moments. "Usually I'm pretty good at Cryptic Jim Speak, but I'm gonna need a translation this time."

Jim took a long breath as he tried to let the truth make its way past his inner wall of silence.

"I love that truck, and it's easy because that truck is wholly mine in every possible way. I want a lot more out of my truck than normal people because I can do more with it. In a world of a thousand identical trucks, I'd still want that one because to me, it's different. And nobody else could ever understand it the way I do, could handle it the way I do. It's my truck and it fits me in a way I know it wouldn't fit anybody else."

The Sentinel was hyper aware of Blair behind him, of his heart-rate, a little elevated. Of his breathing, a little deliberately slow. He could even hear the twitch in Sandburg's jaw where he opened his mouth to say something, then gulped and stopped.

Jim forced himself to turn and face him. "You're a lot...a lot more important to me than the truck, Chief. And...I need you a lot more than I could ever need it, too."

Jim was braced for Blair to make a joke or try to dodge, but he didn't. "I'm here, Jim," he said simply, looking steadily into his eyes without a hitch of discomfort.

"No, it's..." he wanted so badly to turn away, but he couldn't. Not this time. "I don't know how to explain it. It's..." Incacha says I'm holding you back. And maybe I am. Maybe I still don't want to dive all the way into those deep waters with you. But I'd rather gut myself on a spork than let you go to anybody else and I don't understand it. I don't get it, and I don't like that I don't get it. Why can't it be easy? Why does it have to be so big?

"Jim," Blair said his name low and gentle. "I trust you, man. Whatever it is, it's okay. I'm here."

Something in Jim Ellison's chest broke loose and seemed to seize him in an urgent grip at Blair's acceptance, even welcome. In two strides he was across the space between them. Blair was watching him carefully, closely, but he never shied away, never flinched, not even when Jim's hands came up to his face.

Jim had touched Blair's face before. He'd checked him for injuries often enough, that was for sure. He'd smacked him once or twice when he needed to get Blair all the way back to consciousness, and he'd feigned striking him, too, patting him in jest. He'd grabbed him to hold him under his arm for a well-deserved head-scruff. And he'd touched him one hideous day when Blair's skin had been blue and cold and lifeless, had stroked the planes of his face with a final plea to return. This wasn't like any of those moments.

Jim's hands settled along Blair's jaw. His left hand he curled there, fingers brushing the throat and feeling as though they were pulsing along with the heart that beat firmly beneath the skin. The right hand he moved slowly, aware of every pore, every line, every fine hair as he slid upwards along the cheek. His thumb found Blair's nose and ran up along the bridge, the pads of his fingers framing his eye, just touching his hairline at his temple. He followed the edge of the forehead up and into the center until he could press his palm flat, his thumb tracing an eyebrow while his fingers disappeared into the long, soft strands of hair.

Something like a tremor went through Jim. He could no more stop himself than he could quit breathing. He curled his left hand around behind Blair's neck to the base of his head, burying his right hand in the curls at the crown. His eyes drifted closed and he let himself tip forward as his hands and arms gathered the Guide, his Guide, to him.

Jim pressed his forehead to Blair's, the very tips of their noses touching.

"Jim?" Blair whispered, Sentinel-soft.

But Jim couldn't answer him. His heart was pounding and he thought he might shudder until his bones broke apart. He wanted the floor to open up under him, swallowing them both whole. He wanted the world to disappear and leave him alone forever – just let this instant last for all time and he would be content. If the door to this room vanished, if the room vanished, if there was nothing, just his forehead and his hands and that tip of his nose and the breathing and heart-beat sounding in his ears – he would be happy.

And then there was warmth on his chest. Blair's hand. Not pushing him away, not hesitant, not a rejection. Blair's fingertips trailed over the muscles of his chest until they found his heart, where it pounded with a strange energy; there, he spread his hand and let his palm rest against that driving pulse.

It was too much. There couldn't be this much, could there? Jim was caught in a maelstrom of his whole life crystallized in that single moment. How could he simultaneously be hearing every broken promise, every painful sob, every silent, sullen acceptance of his childhood, every scream of the dying, every bark of a gun taking a life, every death rattle? How loud was a jaguar's roar? How loud a wolf's howl? And then above it, or around it, or maybe inside it, there were the joyful things – the laughter of children, the moments when he was happy, the pride of his commanders and his soldiers, the nights around a campfire with Simon, the camaraderie of the bullpen. And Blair. Always Blair.

Jim had experienced the whole life-flashes-before-your-eyes thing before. That was nothing compared to this. This wasn't a sequence of events – this was the total sum of everything that had ever mattered materializing in one single instant, all at full volume, full color, full intensity. Time compressed until everything was Here, everything was Now.

And it all played in harmony, a perfect counterpoint, to the touch of that hand on his chest, that forehead against his own.

This, Jim thought or maybe said or shouted or sang, of my whole life, this is the only thing that was ever real, that ever mattered. This is what I am for.

It hurt. It ached. And somehow Jim was not surprised to find that love's true nature was a joy so deep it could only be understood the same way pain was understood – immediate, irrespective of thought or will, like fire in the nerves that could wrench a sob or a cry because there was no other way to interpret it.

And even as he feared it...I want this so badly, and I can't believe it. I can't even name it. I just want it. I'll do anything for it.

"Me too, Jim."

Blair's voice was so low it was almost subvocal, but Jim heard it. He couldn't bear to open his eyes, couldn't bear to move. He could barely stand to speak, but he couldn't help that, either. He couldn't not answer this person, this person above all others.

"You what, Chief?"

"All of it, Jim. All of it. Me, too."

Those words filled him even more, but he had to ask, he had to be sure. "I don't know what this means. I don't know how... What if...?" He stopped, no longer even knowing what he was asking.

"It doesn't matter," Blair breathed back. "It just is. Don't try to control something that can't be controlled. Just let it be." Then, with a little more strength, "Come with me, Jim."

He never needed to ask. "Anywhere."

Their connection frizzled and then blew wide open. And suddenly Jim was spiraling, lost in blue light and an echo of water.

The jaguar was roaring and running and leaping. The wolf was barking and sprinting and soaring. Again and again, they flowed into one another. Again and again, they two became one. Again and again, they joined in a flash of light. Of life. Delicate as a newly-opened flower, miraculous as a star, inevitable as gravity, eternal as time, vast as all creation.

And every time it happened, Jim knew with absolute, irrevocable certainty that everything he felt, everything that he wanted – it was shared in equal measure by Blair.

This was what Incacha had meant. This was the connection that Jim had avoided, and at last embraced, and even now he could feel something like a door opening in his mind – or maybe it was Blair's because who could tell? – and a last piece of them both settling into place.

"I think," Blair's voice was all around him, or maybe he was all around it, "we finally made it from those shallower waters to the ocean."

"Those waters were nice before, like you said," Jim returned with a quiet sort of ecstasy. "Now they're..."

"I know, man. I'm right here with you."

"Were you always here?"

"Yeah, I think so. And so were you, Jim."

"That's true." And Jim knew it was. "I'll always be here. With you."

Here in this moment. Here in the connection that brought one back from death and breathed life into both. Here in a feeling so vast no planet, no galaxy should be big enough to contain it, let alone one frail human chest, or even two. Here where fear could never tread because fear was just pain in advance and there was no pain in this. Here in the heart of wholeness. Here in the light of forever. Here in the meaning of love.

Jim didn't want to leave.

"You don't have to," Blair's words were gentle. "Because you never will."

"Never," Jim affirmed fiercely. "Never."

And the light faded, the jaguar and wolf slid back to shadows and shifting hues of blue, and the broadness of the inexpressible slid back to something more believable. Back to where Jim still had his fingers tangled in Blair's hair and Blair had a hand on his chest and they were still pressed together at the forehead with their noses just barely touching and Jim's arms were shaking.

Jim didn't know how to move. But Blair did.

Blair slid forward slowly, allowing Jim's nose to follow the contour of his nose and forehead until it was buried in the crown of his head and Blair's face was pressed to Jim's chest, his arms wound around his back. Jim's arms tightened to hold him, and for one dizzying moment Blair couldn't quite tell whose body was whose, whether he was the one resting his face on the top of a beloved head or if it was against a steady heart, which arms held him and which were his with which to hold.

"I love you, Jim," he said because he couldn't not say it. He could not stand here and not say aloud those words with that echoing feeling inside. And he knew even as he said it that Jim might not say it back, and that was fine, and he knew Jim knew it was fine if he didn't say it back, that Blair understood on a level that surpassed language entirely and went straight to the soul. That nothing was gained or lost by Blair saying it, and nothing could be made greater or less by Jim not saying it.

But Jim's compulsion was just as strong because his feelings were just as strong. "I love you, too. Dear god, I love you Blair."

And Blair squeezed tightly for a moment, but only a moment. In the same way he had somehow known what was happening when Jim touched his face, in the same way he had somehow known how to pull both their minds away to some other place or some other awareness, he knew with unerring accuracy that there was only one more moment of this left. Then he allowed his grip around Jim's ribcage to relax and slowly eased back, finally opening his eyes to meet Jim's.

Jim briefly wondered why he wasn't panicking. This seemed like a perfect moment for all his deep-seated insecurities and discomforts and what Sandburg had called his fear-based responses to kick into overdrive. But he couldn't seem to muster any anxiety, not now.

"I think," Blair said softly, watching his eyes and smiling a little, "maybe it's like your truck after all."

Jim raised an eyebrow, his own face quirking into a warm smile.

"You can spend your whole life learning to drive, learning about cars, finding out how they work and what to listen for and everything, and you can go through a bunch of cars, never knowing you're waiting for the exact right one. And you'll drive some truly awful cars and some great ones, and you'll like some to the end and wind up hating others, but it's all practice. So when the right one finally comes along, you're not afraid anymore. The fear you had doesn't apply anymore. How could you be afraid of the very thing you're made for?"

It was trite, but it made Jim laugh anyway. And he reached out and tousled Blair's hair fondly, marveling at all the things that finally fit inside his mind when they had never fit before.

"I'm not," he said. "You're right. I'm not afraid."

I will never be afraid of you again, Blair Sandburg. Or of this, of what this means. Of us.

He didn't say it aloud – he didn't need to. He knew his partner heard him anyway.

"So," Blair said after a moment. "Was that what you...you know? With the dream?"

Jim had almost forgotten. With a start, he shook his head. "No, Chief. Well, yes, but that's not all." He met his Guide's eyes seriously. "Something's happened in Cascade. We need to go home. Now."