The change was abrupt: light to darkness, artificial whiteness to the stark, natural shadows of a cavern's depths. And all around them, winking like paint-spatter stars, the incongruous surfaces of polished gems embedded in the rock.

Not for the first time, Ino considered telling Shikamaru precisely how weird his mindscape was but bit her tongue—there would be time for that later.

Later, when they weren't wading knee deep in water. When she'd been here before, there had only been the barest flow along the ground, little rivulets making leisurely progress through the cracks in the rock. Now, it was pouring in on all sides, splashing off the uneven surface of the walls and spattering onto their skin.

"Okay, genius, what's our way out?"

Shikamaru hummed a contemplative little noise of annoyance. He lagged a step behind her, examining their surroundings with a growing furrow between his brows. "I'm thinking."

"Can you think faster?" Every step was becoming harder as the water pulled at their legs. Ino had a white-knuckle grip on Shikamaru's hand—it was probably uncomfortably tight for him, but after all the pain she'd endured for his sake, a little part of her didn't care. It was better to know he was still there, to know that she wasn't alone. Losing him again at this point was a far worse prospect than causing him some pain in the short term.

As they waded forward, it was growing harder to tell whether his silence really was him just trying to think, or whether another lapse of focus had overcome him. He'd seemed to be regaining his clarity of mind as they moved through the layers, but it also didn't seem like an entirely linear progression.

Ino looked over her shoulder, trying to get a glimpse of his face, but between the shadows and the water pouring off the rocks, spitting droplets into her eyes, she couldn't get a good read on him.

Maybe if I prompt him…

"If I understood this place right, this cavern is some kind of… possibility map. Right?" She asked.

Shikamaru grunted affirmation. "Something like that."

That response sounded more like his usual enigmatic, stubborn way of conversing than the distant reaction of someone who didn't know where he was. Ino took that as an encouraging sign and continued.

"Okay, so… we just need to find the right possibility. The circumstances that see us getting the hell out of here. Right?"

His grimace was practically audible. "Maybe."

Ino felt her temper flare, tried to take a deep breath in and out. "Maybe? Maybe's not really good enough right now, Shikamaru!"

"It's… complicated. This—shit!"

He had chosen bad footing—his hand tensed in hers for a second as he steadied himself with his free arm against the cavern wall, barely keeping himself from plunging into the flood below, and her along with him. She paused for a moment as he righted himself, trying to ignore the realization that the water level had begun creeping up her thighs.

"Complicated how?" She softened her tone. Getting snippy with him now wasn't going to help either of them.

If it hadn't been Shikamaru—obstinate, surly Shikamaru—she almost would have believed there was a note of gratitude in his voice as they continued, a tacit acknowledgment of her own conscious step away from irritation.

"That's one possibility. The other possibility is that we need to go back to the root. The place that's still the most nebulous. The least defined. Where the most possible outcomes still exist. How did you say you got in here the first time?"

"I fell." She held up her injured wrist, sending a little spike of pain shooting through it. "That's how I got this lovely bruise. There was an island up above, and a huge expanse of water, and I walked out into it and let myself sink. Then I was here. But I don't know how that helps us. I don't think it's as simple as just climbing back up."

"No, I don't think so either."

Again, she tamped down on the urge to ask why he didn't know the way out of his own mind. If he'd known the way out, there would have been no reason for her to come here.

Besides, one of the first principles her father had ever taught her when she started shadowing him at the Intelligence Division was just that: you couldn't expect someone to know their own mind. Not truly. It required a degree of introspection that most people were reluctant to endure. Even people as intelligent as Shikamaru—sometimes especially people as intelligent as Shikamaru.

She could still hear the words in her father's voice, hear the way he'd griped about the tendency of the Nara men to avoid confronting their own thoughts and feelings to the point of irrationality. The memory brought a smile to her face before it made her sad—and that was new. Up until now, even the briefest mention or reminder of her father brought the grief surging forth. But for that one moment, it had been a comfort to think of him before it had caused her pain.

Inoichi would be proud of her for this, she thought—proud and terrified. She would've gotten an earful over the dinner table after the fact, for accepting this mission without the slightest hesitation, but she'd known the difference between true anger and the anxious overflow of her father's concern. She would've retorted that he would've done the same thing in her place, if it had been his own teammate, and that would've been the end of the discussion, because Inoichi Yamanaka could acknowledge when he'd been bested by his daughter. And the next day there would be an apology by way of purple flowers in the house, of whatever variety was in fullest bloom this season, the prettiest reserved especially for a place of prominence in Ino's room.

The echoes of his training felt like one more way that he continued to look out for her, even now that he was gone.

"Did you hear what I said?"

Shikamaru had been talking to her, and she'd gotten carried away in her own thoughts. Ino was growing more tired than she had acknowledged, either to herself or to him, to get so distracted. She refocused.

"Sorry, what?"

"I said this'll be more efficient if we divide the work."

"Right…" She looked to him again, hoping for some more instructional guidance about exactly what work he meant.

Shikamaru sighed—clearly, he had already said this too. "You look for any reflection that resembles that other layer you talked about. The island. I keep an eye out for any spots of possibility convergence that seem like a likely place for an exit. Okay?"

"Got it."

It felt better to have a defined task. Something to draw her mind away from the how much their progress had slowed, how many gems glittering along the walls had now been covered by the rising tide, how the water had begun to splash up around the bottom of her hips.

"Just… try not to touch anything unless you're absolutely sure." There was more worry than scolding to his voice, and that made her more fearful than anything he'd yet said. "If we get sucked into one of the other possibilities, we may lose time that we don't have."

She nodded, afraid to speak in case her voice betrayed her.

She wasn't sure he clocked the acknowledgement at first. But then he squeezed her fingers, once, briefly, and she felt steadied again. They would get through this. They would find a way out. She hadn't come this far, suffered this much, just to fail now.

She flicked errant spray away from her lashes to clear her vision, then began scanning the rockface for familiar imagery.

A multitude of scenes played out around her. Her gaze caught for a moment on something she knew, but it wasn't what she was looking for—just that earlier moment that she'd almost lost herself in, Shikamaru's conversation with Temari. It felt like years had passed since the first time she'd almost slipped into it. A petty, jealous part of her wanted to ask what it meant, now that she had Shikamaru here at her side. But that too was overridden by the singular focus drilled into her, the voice in her head that said later, later, all that has to come later.

Ino was starting to feel like she could fill a book with all the words she had saved for later. If they ever got a later.

She forced herself to move on—image after image, gem after gem, scenes playing out in hazy detail, so much she recognized and so much she didn't. But none of it was the island—nothing even close. And the little huffs of annoyance from over her shoulder told her that Shikamaru's search wasn't going any better.

Movement became harder. The weight of the water pressed against them, slowing their progress. They both stumbled a few times, one catching the other just in time to keep them both from tumbling down into the growing flood, exchanging brief, grateful glances and jittery smiles before returning to the task at hand.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of fruitless searching, she asked the question she'd been holding in, the very last one she'd wanted to ask.

"How much time do you think we have?"

Shikamaru was silent for a long moment—so long she feared she'd lost him again. But then he spoke, his voice weary, low over the rushing sound of the water.

"Not much. I think it's filling faster as we go."

Her stomach sunk. She'd noticed it too, but she'd been hoping she was wrong—that her fear and fatigue had simply been getting the better of her, playing tricks on her perception of time, of volume.

"If it rises much further—"

"We swim. And we keep searching."

She swallowed, her throat gone suddenly, ironically dry.

"Okay. We swim."

And that was looking more and more likely, as image after image failed to match what she was searching for, as the water rose to her waist, her chest, her shoulders. It was nearly to her chin when Shikamaru pulled to a stop just next to her. His hand, still clasped tight in hers below the surface of the water, shook.

His dark eyes were bleak, apologetic. "This is a shitty way to die. Ino, I'm—"

"We're not going to die."

The vehemence of the words surprised her. Everything within her was screaming agreement with his grim assessment. They were going to drown, this close to the surface of his mind, and no one would know what had truly happened, and Konoha would lose them both.

But the words on her tongue did not echo those thoughts.

"We're going to live, and you're going to find us a way out of here. So help me, Shikamaru, I did not come all this way, break my wrist, bruise myself up, knock myself out, risk two-thirds of our team, and leave Choji and Shizune and Tsunade and who knows who else out there worrying about us so that you can quit on me now. You've always found us a solution before. Why should this be any different? Or was Asuma-sensei wrong about you?"

Ino knew the words would make him angry even as she let them leave her mouth—it was a stab straight for the heart and it was deeply, deeply unfair. She had hurt him, and it had cost her to do it, but if it meant saving his life, she would take all the anger he could throw at her, now and later. Even if it meant he never spoke to her again.

She saw the emotions flicker over his face. Rage, grief, self-loathing, misery—everything he guarded so closely, everything he kept below the surface. Everything he never wanted anyone to see. But she had seen it all, seen to the very core of him, and she knew him almost better than he knew himself. When his expression finally shifted and settled on determination, she felt a surge of triumph.

His voice was stiff but steady as he said, "Hold your breath as long as you can."

Ino kept searching until the moment before her head plunged under the water. Then she took a deep breath, straining her lungs, and ducked beneath the surface.

Below the water was a different world. The water caught and carried the light from the gems away in strange angles, shifting and sinuous lines of color. Every attempt to focus took more effort. The shapes of possibilities took time to resolve, and she was ever aware of the ticking clock that was the air in her lungs. The seconds ticked by and more and more began to blur in her vision. But every time she strayed from her task, she remembered the anchor of Shikamaru's hand still clasped in hers and righted herself.

They would find it. They had to.

But as time stretched on, she continued to come up empty. Ino didn't know how long she had been holding her breath, but if she had to estimate, she imagined she had expended about half the air in her lungs. Half left. Her chest ached. Her ears had begun to ring. Maybe because the island was only a space in his mind or maybe for other reasons, a slow, cold certainty crept over her as she searched—she wasn't going to find it. If they were going to make their way out of here, it would be because of Shikamaru.

She didn't have much time to make a decision before it would be rendered pointless anyway. Glancing over her shoulder, she let a second or two slip past as she watched Shikamaru—just watched him and hoped. Hoped this was worth it. She could see that he was beginning to strain to hold the breath too. Time was so scarce. And that, if nothing else, decided for her.

She tugged on his hand. It took him a moment to respond, rotating slowly in the water to face her. After a brief, hopeful instant that she had found something, his expression settled into confusion and annoyance, though more of the former than the latter. He raised an eyebrow at her. It was a face she had seen so many times and yet she felt the need to commit it to memory just once more.

I came here to save you. And I'm going to do that, no matter what.

Ino let go of his hand. For a moment, the two of them just floated, parallel to one another. Then, with all the courage she could muster, she closed the distance, clasping his face in her hands.

She pressed her lips to his—this wasn't how she had ever imagined doing this, and the fact that she was even acknowledging that she had imagined doing this broke a seal that she thought she had soldered shut a long, long time ago—created a seal, and breathed what remained of her air into his lungs.

She wasn't sure a psychic connection was even possible here—though it had seemed to help bring them from the room with the shogi table back to the room with the mirror, that had only been a poor imitation of her actual technique. But there was a part of her that believed he must have heard when she loosened her grip, her chest already spasming and so, so heavy, and sent the last of her conscious, coherent thoughts toward him.

Bring us back.

Frantic motion. He lunges to grab her wrist even as his other hand scrapes the surface of the cave wall, searching for some way, any way out. He is not sure if it is the extra air or the sudden, sharp fear at the sight of her drifting form that brings new clarity to his thoughts. Perhaps it is the feather-light touch at the edge of his mind, the voice that he has rarely gone a day without hearing for years upon years, that used to drive him crazy and now sounds so much like home.

Bring us back.

And he is questing along the rock, fingers scraping, bleeding, his eyes stinging as he searches. He has lost so many, but she cannot be one of them. That is non-negotiable. Feelings wash over him, a storm of incongruous emotion as dozens upon dozens of hazy potential realities pass under his fingertips. Right now, there is only one reality that matters. The one where she lives.

And there. His fingers snag on a cleft in the rock. It is ringed by spiderweb cracks, veins converging and diverging in endless fractures.

And he is sure, because he cannot be anything but sure, not with the image burned into his eyes of her floating beside him and the growing ache in his own lungs and the thought of his mother and Choji mourning yet another time. He thinks of the surface and sand and a crystalline blue-green expanse above and below, the color of her eyes.

And then the water is moving, a wave spitting them out on a familiar shore and he is gasping, every breath like he has swallowed needles. His vision blurs, doubles, and he cannot say if it is the lack of oxygen or some remnant of that godforsaken cave that overlays two paths, like one dream pressing in on another, as he looks over at her.

In one vision, he is laying on his back, gazing up at the endless sky, her at his side, her upper arm pressed against his, skin sun-warmed. She turns her head to look at him, an exaggerated frown on her face, twitching into a smile, a light dancing in her eyes. He does not hesitate to kiss her then, because they are alive, she is alive, and he cannot let the only memory of her lips on his be one in which she is dying to let him live. He kisses her like time means nothing, like they are young again with the whole world ahead, before the trauma of generations stoops their shoulders. He kisses her like he has always wanted to kiss her, despite years of convincing himself otherwise. And she only says finally, you idiot.

And in the other vision, they lay on the sand, and he is gasping for breath, and she is still beside him, her eyes closed, her long, limp hair plastered to her pale skin.

The visions swarm and diverge, and he closes his eyes to dissolve them, only to feel again the water lapping at the outline of his body.

And he is floating, they both are, carried up and up and up as he reaches for the surface.

Shikamaru woke with a pounding headache.

The lights were too bright, and he tried to shield his eyes, but his muscles and nerves weren't obeying him. His hand stayed limp at his side, and he could only hiss his displeasure through gritted teeth. His eyes stung and burned, watering fiercely.

His surroundings emerged slowly—a stark, clean room. White walls, no windows. He was on the floor and his whole body shook like he had been sick for weeks.

What the hell, he tried to say, but his tongue was heavy and dry as sandpaper.

He didn't have to wait long for the answer to his unspoken question. Voices grew louder and louder until someone threw open the door to the room and he was swarmed by medic-nin, examining him, checking his vitals, asking him questions, giving him water and telling him to sip slowly even as they waited for his answers.

In all the din and tumult, it took him a moment to notice the other cluster of physicians across the room, talking in hushed, urgent voices around a figure slumped on the ground.

When he got a clear view, it took some time for him to process what he was seeing. She looked unreal, splayed like a doll, her long, pale hair fanned out around her and as unkempt as he had ever seen it. There was dried blood crusted along her hairline, visible even under the bandages, and fresh blood had trickled from her nose onto her lips and down the line of her jaw, like some kind of macabre makeup. Bruises mottled one wrist beneath some kind of stabilizing cast.

And he couldn't tell if she was breathing.

A/N: Y'all. Your reviews continue to make me cry. (In a good way, I promise.) We're in the home stretch now. Maybe one or two chapters left to go. I genuinely could not have done this without you all coming back to tell me how much this meant to you, and it's been a joy and a privilege to share it with you. I hope I stick the landing.