Well, I (like many others) saw epi 3.2 and flipped out. So this is my take on what happened. R and R, s'il vous plait!

And J'ai peur means 'I am afriad'. Il a eu peur maintenent means 'He had fear now'.

Danny only remembered one thing from the French 4 class he'd walked into accidentally in his junior year. J'ai peur… I am afraid. He remembered most of his Spanish classes, but that one little phrase… it had stuck to him like glue. It just sounded better than the simple 'I'm scared' did.

Well, il a eu peur maintenant. He couldn't think, couldn't breathe. He could hardly move. All that remained in him was fear – the fear that he would never see his partner alive. She wasn't a cop, not like Mac or Stella. She was a homegrown country girl who had the heart of a Staten Island mook in the palm of her hand. And she was going to die.

He heard the African man speaking, and knew she was made before she did. His body reacted, about to spring into action and rescue his damsel in distress. "She's been made," he shouted, and rushed to Lindsay's aide. Vaguely he was aware of Stella following him.

There were no staircases. There were no doors or windows. At least, not in Danny's mind. All that existed was apartment 3C, where she was in danger.

A flash appeared from beneath the doorway; the bomb had been activated. Flack and a SWAT member kicked down the door together. Inside was a furious haze. Danny pushed his way into the mêlée; so what if there were two dangerous men inside holding large guns?

He shouted, "Lindsay!" and got no response. For a heart-shattering moment, he thought she had already been shot. "Lindsay!"

Her first instinct had been to run and hide, but Lindsay was stronger than that. Je ne vais pas courir. I will not run.

Oddly, she thought it in French, her language of choice for four years in high school. At one time, she had wanted to be a French teacher.

The blonde girl trapped on the chair had whimpered, petrified. Lindsay thought he looked a little like Paris Hilton, only pastier.

When the bomb went off, she leapt into action, pulled the girl to the ground and covering her ears. The frightful sound dazed her; Lindsay looked up to see the two threatening Africans stumbling about it shock. The door exploded as a horde of SWAT washed through, along with the curly-headed Greek detective. "Danny," Lindsay whispered softly. "Where's my Danny?"

He was there, his eyes wide as a deer in the headlights. A figure was lying in the dust on the floor. Again he yelled, "Lindsay!"

"Danny," a voice came from below him. There she was, curled like a purple angel. His Montana trooper, protective to the last. He pulled her to his feet, eyes searching for the slightest bruise or scrape. His rough New York hands cupped her hands, which were clinging to her ears.

Danny wanted to kiss her so badly, just to assure himself that she was real and not on the ground in a pool of dark blood. Her eyes were wide and shocked, each brown pool locked onto his own baby blues.

She could hardly breathe. He came for her. He called her name. He wanted her safe.

As his arms curled protectively around her and his scruffy chin rested solidly on her hair, Lindsay was sure that Danny wanted to kiss her.

She kind of wanted it too. Just to make sure she was real.

I'm not afraid, Danny thought. Je n'ai pas peur.

He had no idea where the phrase came from.

Je n'ai pas peur, Lindsay thought. She was safe in his arms.

And she knew Danny knew it too.