by CKC

"C'mon, man, it's spreading! We've got to get you to the Emergency Room!" Hair flying, Blair grabbed Jim's arm and tried to haul him out of the couch. With a grimace, Jim brushed off his partner's hands and sat back.

"Slow down a minute, Chief."

Blair stared at the angry red patches that splotched Jim's cheeks and throat. He could practically see the heat radiating off them, and in dismay watched them slowly spreading across the smooth, pale skin. He crossed his shaking arms over his chest and stomped down the fear that tickled his gut.

"Listen, Jim," he said, speaking very slowly and clearly, as if he were speaking a foreign language. "You are having a severe allergic reaction to something and could go into anaphylactic shock and die. We have to get you-"

"Give me some credit here, Sandburg. I was a medic, I know what to look for in these cases..."

"Then why are you sitting here on your ass instead of going to the hospital?"

"Because I'm not having any trouble breathing-"

"Yet," Blair blurted, but he subsided at Jim's scowl.

"Sandburg..." Jim warned, then shook his head. "Listen, it's nothing to worry about. I'm sure it'll pass."

"Not worry! With you looking like an extra in a horror flick?"

"That's enough, Chief." He spoke quietly, but his tone brooked no argument.

"Okay, Jim." Blair reined himself in with an effort. With a tense nod he sat on the coffee table and leaned forward. "But at least try that physical awareness exercise we were working on last week - the one that Incacha showed you. Maybe you can sense what's causing the allergy."

Jim sighed, but he obediently sat up, forearms resting on his knees, hands dangling. He closed his eyes and bowed his head slightly, stillness cloaking him.

"Start with your tongue. Don't get hung up on taste," Blair warned softly. "Just feel it, warm and wet, then work to the back of your throat. Swallow." He watched closely as Jim's throat muscles worked, shifting beneath the smooth skin. "Take it down farther..."

His eyes never left Jim's face as he quietly talked his partner down into the myriad branches of his lungs. Blair jumped at every change in Jim's expression, every muscle twitch, but his soft string of directions and encouragement never faltered.

Then, without warning, Jim made a strange huffing sound and suddenly stopped breathing. Terror slammed through Blair, but he only permitted himself to feel afraid for an instant before shoving it to one side. He slid forward, hands cupping Jim's face, calling to him urgently.

"Jim, feel my hands... Back out a little, man! C'mon, Jim..."

Five seconds. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty. Jim's skin felt cold and clammy, his lips slowly drained of color, turning pasty gray.

"Jim! Shit, man, I don't know what I'm doing here, you've gotta help..." His hands roughly chafed Jim's face. "Feel my hands, dammit... C'mon, Jim, back out, don't do this to me."

Thirty seconds. Blair's voice broke as he called to Jim and his pleas grew more and more disjointed.

"Jim... Please... Oh, man, this can't happen..."

Blair's shaking fingers stroked Jim's face, then cupped his mottled cheeks again.

"Okay. Okay, calm down," he muttered. Closing his eyes, Blair leaned forward, his forehead barely touching Jim's, and took a deep breath, expelling it in a gust.

Jim's chest heaved and he sucked in an enormous gulp of air.

Blair's eyes flew open. Jim was staring at him, bewildered, gasping for breath. Hands tightening on Jim's face for a moment, Blair then let go and sat back on the table. His legs felt like jelly and he swallowed convulsively before he could trust himself to speak.

"You okay, man?"

Jim nodded, a tiny movement that echoed through his muscles and built into a bout of shaking so intense that he looked like he was being tossed about by some gigantic invisible hand. Blair leapt up and helped Jim lie back on the couch, his arms tightly wrapped around his partner, as if he could hold him still by force. Gradually the tremors lessened and Jim's taut body relaxed. Blair finally pulled away with a frown as Jim sighed and closed his eyes, resting limp and pale against the cushions.

Blair ran to the bathroom and returned with a damp washcloth. He carefully laid it on Jim's forehead, smoothing it out with gentle strokes.

"What the hell happened?" he asked as he fussed with the washcloth, crouching beside the couch, his face almost as pale as Jim's.

Jim shrugged, his eyes still closed. "I don't know. I was there... deep inside, and I could hear you telling me what to do, and then..." One of his hands moved restlessly, plucking at a cushion. "And then suddenly everything was silent..."

"You stopped breathing." Blair's voice was flat.

"I did?" Frowning, Jim opened his eyes and met Blair's gaze. "I don't remember that."

"What do you remember?"

Jim's eyes shifted and he stared over Blair's shoulder. "Not much. Feelings, mostly."

"Like what?" Blair kept his voice calm, although his breath caught in his throat.

"Like... being alone." Jim turned and looked at the ceiling, his body still except for the one hand fingering the cushion. "I was completely alone. Just me. My mind. I had no sense of being connected to my body."

"What brought you back?"

There was a flash of blue eyes as Jim glanced at him and then away, but Jim didn't speak. Blair waited a moment, then reached up to refold the washcloth. Jim suddenly grasped his wrist, pulling Blair's hand down to rest on his chest, then, as suddenly, released it.

"I don't know," he finally replied, not looking at Blair. "And I don't see how this has anything to do with this rash, Sandburg."

"Did anything like this ever happen when you did this with Incacha?" Blair ignored Jim's complaint with the ease of long practice.

"No." Before Blair could frame another question, Jim shook his head. "That's enough with the twenty questions. I'm tired and my face and chest itch, but my lungs are fine. I'm not going to the hospital."

"Fine." Blair refolded the washcloth, replacing it on Jim's forehead with a frown. "I've got to call the restaurant and get a list of ingredients for the kabobs. Check if there's anything that you haven't eaten before. Did you do anything else different today? Go anywhere, wear something new?"

"Nothing, Chief. Just the kabobs at dinner." Jim relaxed and seemed to regain his patience again.

It didn't take Blair long to get the list of ingredients from the restaurant. He put on his glasses and studied it, lips pursed. Finally, with a shake of his head, he returned to perch on the coffee table.

"I'm stumped, Jim. There was nothing in the kabobs that you haven't eaten before." He rubbed his forehead. "Okay. Let's go through this step by step. After dinner, we got home and you took a shower and changed clothes. Ummm... Have you changed your laundry detergent recently?"

"No." Jim shook his head, then froze, staring at the ceiling. His face slowly pinked. "Damn. I bought a new brand of bath soap last week and used it for the first time tonight."

"Good! Good!" Blair practically bounced with excitement. "That must be it! Maybe it was the perfume, or a dye, or-"

"Yeah, yeah, Chief. Let's do the chemical analysis later. I'll switch back to my old brand. That'll teach me to mock brand loyalty."

Blair snickered, then grew serious. "Jim," he said, his voice hesitant, "have you ever had any allergies before?"

"No. You know that."

"And now, within a couple of months you've experienced three allergy attacks. The first to that bear paw, then to the bottled water, and now to a new brand of soap. The thing that worries me is that each one is more severe than the last." He paused. "It's possible that your system is becoming overloaded. Your body could be getting more and more sensitive to things in the environment, and I have no idea what will set it off the next time."

"What makes you think there'll be a next time?"

Blair pursed his lips. "I'm not sure it'll happen again, but so far, each attack seems to be getting progressively worse. And I'm afraid that if you have another, it'll land you in the hospital or..." He stared at Jim, suddenly silent.

"What are our options, Chief?" Jim looked interested, but not worried.

"I don't know. I don't think we should try the physical awareness stuff again, after what happened." He bounced up from his seat and began to pace in front of the windows. "I mean, I really don't have a clue about what I'm doing with your senses. I make things up, and usually they work, but I'm not Incacha - I wasn't trained to guide you, to be a shaman. I'm flying by the seat of my pants, and it's really starting to scare me. I almost killed you!" He frowned and turned to the window, staring out at the darkness, shoulders hunched.

"Sandburg." Jim's voice was unexpectedly harsh. "Look at me." Reluctantly Blair turned and faced his partner, still stretched out on the couch. Jim propped himself up on one elbow and glared at Blair. "Cut the crap about 'almost killing me.' We both know that's bullshit. Everything you've taught me has been right on the mark. But I've got to learn how to control my body better - Incacha told me that when he first started to guide me. You're the only one who can help..." He held up a hand as Blair opened his mouth. "I just need to practice more. But not when I'm hot and itchy and pissed off because I'm missing the game on tv!"

Blair smiled a little, unaccountably comforted by Jim's words. He picked up the tv remote and tossed it to Jim, who caught it deftly.

"Turn on the tv, then, if it'll put you in a better mood." He crouched down before Jim, studying his face. "It's getting better. The redness is fading. Does it still itch?"

"No." Jim stared fixedly at the tv screen. "Okay, a little... It's not bad."

"Want some salve?"

"No."

"Then I've got some really good tea - it'll help with the itching. Want me to make you some?"

"No way." He paused, then sighed, as Blair continued to look at him. "Listen, Chief, I feel like the new specimen at the zoo. Can you give it a rest for a while?"

"Sure." Blair rose and circled the sofa to the kitchen table. His laptop sat amidst a mountain of reference books - evidence of what he'd been involved in before Jim's allergy attack. "Let me know if you need something, okay?"

"What I need is some quiet."

Blair gave it to him. Turning back to his computer, Blair called up a new document and began to type, keeping an ear cocked to listen to Jim on the couch behind him. He wanted to get down every detail he could remember about these attacks Jim was experiencing - dates, times, symptoms, everything. After twenty minutes he re-read his words, satisfied. The next step was more difficult - deciding what to do. Jim's allergies were becoming too severe to ignore, but consulting an allergist was out of the question. Jim was right; he had to continue with the awareness practice, and Blair had to help him. It was the only thing they could do.

But...

Blair twisted in his seat to glance at his partner out of the corner of his eye. Slumped almost bonelessly against the couch cushions, Jim was watching the television, and Blair noticed how the watery blue light from the screen illuminating the spare lines of forehead, cheekbone, jaw and throat - the features of a strong man with a disciplined body. But the body was still only blood, sinew and bone, and it would not fall prey to bizarre and unforeseen dangers if Blair Sandburg had an atom of wit or strength left to prevent it.

Slowly, as if he were aware of Blair's regard, Jim turned his head. The rash on his face had almost completely faded, and only a hint of raw pinkness on his cheeks and forehead showed where it had been.

"How're you feeling, Jim?"

"Better," he admitted with a shrug. "Still kinda itchy, though. You said something about some tea..." It wasn't quite a question. Hiding a grin, Blair jumped up.

"I'll make some," he offered, and within five minutes he handed Jim a steaming mug. "I know it's kind of pungent," he said, laughing at the dubious look on Jim's face, "but it won't hurt you. How's the game going?"

"These guys would be dangerous if they could play. Might as well be high school JV," Jim replied, disgusted. He took a sip, paused thoughtfully, then smiled. "Not bad."

Blair perched on the arm of the sofa, his fingers beating a jerky tattoo against the fabric.

"You know, you're right," he began abruptly. "You've got to get more control over your body, especially the involuntary responses. The problem is that there's no time here. You're working twelve and fourteen hour days, I'm bouncing between the PD and the university like some demented ping-pong ball, and the weekends get eaten up with chores and work and day-to-day stuff."

Jim set down his mug and clicked off the tv, settling back with his arms crossed.

"What's your point?"

"That we've got to do something soon." Blair tucked a lock of hair behind his ear and frowned. "You've got to get enough control to stop an attack, or at least to keep it from becoming severe, and there's no time to practice here. You've got to get away-"

"Not a chance, Sandburg. You know that! We're in the middle of three cases, and-"

"You don't have much choice, Jim. Another attack could be fatal." His voice quavered on the last word, but he ruthlessly pushed down his panic. "We've got to get this under control, now."

Jim closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then looked steadily at his partner. "Okay, Chief. Point taken. Assuming that Simon will give me the time off, where should we go?"

"I've been thinking about that. We want a place that's quiet, with plain food, and not too remote. What about St. Sebastian's?"

"Would Brother Jeremy allow us back? He seemed pretty anxious to get rid of us last time." Jim smiled a little.

"From what Marcus says in his letters, Brother Jeremy's mellowed over the past year and a half." Blair returned Jim's smile. "And apparently he even asks about you when Marcus gets one of my letters."

Jim snorted softly. "I suppose I should be flattered."

"Hey, it just proves that Brother Jeremy has some sense."

"Thanks, I think," Jim chuckled, then rubbed his face and yawned. "I'm going to bed now. G'night." He carried his mug over to the sink and smiled at Blair as he passed.

"G'night, Jim." Blair watched him pad up the steps, then walked slowly back to the kitchen table. He put on his glasses and stared unseeing at the computer screen, deep in thought.

***

"This is a joke, right?" Simon looked hopefully at Jim, sitting beside Blair at the conference table in Simon's office. "You can't seriously expect me to reassign your case load so you two can go off to meditate."

"No, sir, it isn't a joke." Jim stared out the window, his face impassive.

Fingering his cigar like a talisman, Simon glared at Blair. "I suppose you have some explanation for this request." It wasn't a question.

"Yeah, actually, I do." Blair glanced at Jim, then turned back to the captain. "Jim's developed allergies, and we need to figure out-"

"Allergies? Allergies?" With a snort, Simon picked up a report from the stack in front of him. "Take some Sudafed and get out of my office."

"That won't work because of Jim's-" began Blair.

"Sandburg," Simon barked, "I don't want to know why it won't work. Find a way to fix it!"

"That's what I'm trying to explain-"

Simon leaned over his desk and narrowed his eyes. "A way that doesn't involve taking my best man away for four days."

"Captain." Blair jumped up and confronted Simon, mirroring his posture. There was no subservience, no fear in him - he was aware only of the urgent necessity to keep Jim safe. His voice was as resonant and unyielding as steel crashing on steel. "Jim is experiencing severe allergic reactions. The only way he will be able to control them is by learning to use certain of his Sentinel abilities, and that requires several days away from the Department so that he can focus and concentrate. Otherwise, the next attack could kill him."

Frowning, Simon swallowed hard, his eyes never leaving Blair's. "Are you sure about this?"

"Absolutely."

Simon hesitated, then suddenly dropped into his chair, face weary. "Go. Just let me know where you'll be." He waved his cigar at them.

"We'll be at St. Sebastian's, sir. Brother Jeremy has agreed to let us stay," Jim said quietly, rising and making his way to the door, Blair close on his heels.

"Then God help you." Simon murmured.

***

The truck bumped down the gravel drive, headlights illuminating, then quickly abandoning the vague, looming skeletons of leafless shrubs and trees lining the road.

"You sure we're not going to be too late, Chief?" Jim didn't sound particularly worried, just curious.

"No. I told Brother Jeremy that we wouldn't arrive until after nine, and he said that wasn't a problem."

"Considering that it's now after ten, I'm not sure that anyone will be awake to let us in. You ready to sleep in the truck?" He raised his eyebrows and grinned.

"At least I'll get to sleep inside where it's warm, man. You're too tall to fit on the seat." Blair snickered. "Hope you won't freeze out there in the back."

Jim batted his partner's arm lightly, then peered through the windshield. "They've left the lights on for us."

They pulled up in front of the white clapboard building and Jim killed the engine. Abruptly, Blair turned to him, eyes wide, throat tight. He was suddenly aware of the small slice of time they had - only four days. Four days to help Jim learn to control his body. Four days to discover what Incacha did not have time to teach him. Four days... The specter of failure brushed a cold finger between his shoulders.

"Don't worry, Chief." Jim's voice was soft. "You'll figure it out. I know you will. Just like always."

Blair managed a shaky smile, warmed by Jim's trust. "Yeah. Like always, Jim."

They left the truck and the building door swung wide, warm, golden light spilling down the steps in welcome. Blair grabbed his bag and started up the stairs, smiling as a bathrobe-clad shape filled the doorway.

"Brother Jeremy! I hope we didn't keep you up..."

"Blair," the abbot said, returning his smile. He looked over Blair's shoulder, his smile fading slightly, then freshening, and nodded. "Jim."

"Brother Jeremy," Jim stepped forward, extending his hand. With a brief, unreadable glance, Jeremy took it. "Thank you for letting us stay on such short notice."

"Please," Jeremy waved his free hand. "No thanks are necessary. We are-"

"Blair!"

"Brother Marcus!" Blair suddenly found himself enveloped in two flannel-clad arms, his nose tickled by a wreath of wild white hair. After a hard thump on his back he was released, and Marcus turned to Jim with a grin.

"Good to see you, too, Jim." He hugged Jim as well, but only for a moment. When he stepped back, he glanced at Blair before continuing. "Jeremy and I were delighted when Blair called. Now, come on in - it's freezing out here."

Blair allowed himself to be herded inside, breathing deeply the homey smells of lemon oil, dust, and the vaguest hint of incense. He followed Brother Jeremy down the bare corridor, Brother Marcus at his side, Jim a step behind him. They were shown to the room they had shared before, and, exchanging a look, dumped their bags on the beds.

"We'll let you settle in," said Jeremy, nodding, "then I'd like to see you both in my office and you can explain a few things." He rested his hand on Marcus's shoulder, steering him out the door, and pulled it closed after him.

It only took them a few minutes to stow their belongings, and, after a quick stop at the communal bathroom, Blair and Jim presented themselves at Jeremy's office.

"Sit down, please," Jeremy urged, waving them into the two vacant chairs. Blair was mildly surprised to see Brother Marcus still there, standing behind Jeremy's right shoulder. "We were pleased..." Jeremy hesitated, forehead creased. "I was pleased to receive your call, Blair. But you were a bit... vague about why it was so urgent for you both to come to St. Sebastian's."

Blair turned to Jim, who nodded once and sat back in his chair, obviously handing Blair the reins. Leaning forward and clasping his hands, Blair looked at Marcus and then at Jeremy.

"Jim has developed some very serious allergies," he began, choosing his words carefully. "They're resistant to the usual medications, but we've found that meditation helps him control them a little-"

"And what better place to meditate than a monastery," interrupted Marcus, eyes twinkling.

"Exactly! I'm teaching him some meditation techniques. If Jim and I can spend the mornings on that, Brother Jeremy, then you can put us to work in the afternoons to repay your hospitality."

Jeremy nodded over his steepled fingers, then glanced over his shoulder at Marcus, who had started to speak but quickly subsided at Jeremy's look. "I'm sure I can find something for you to do," he said, turning back to them, his expression grave. "We can talk about it in the morning. Now it's late." He rose, as did Blair and Jim. "Good night."

***

Already changed into tee-shirt and sweatpants, Blair was sitting cross-legged on his narrow bed when Jim returned from the bathroom.

"How're you doing, Jim? Having any problems?"

"Sandburg." Jim hung up his towel and sighed. "Enough with the questions, okay? I'm beginning to feel like a lab rat."

"Sorry, man. I was just checking." Blair didn't try to keep the hurt out of his voice.

"I know." Regret tinged his words as Jim changed into a tee-shirt and boxers, his movements swift and economical.

Deciding to change the subject, Blair began again. "Marcus looks good. He seems to have completely recovered from his wounds."

Jim turned and smiled. "I'm glad."

"Me, too. You know, Marcus was right, Jeremy really has loosened up."

"Yeah." Jim paused in the middle of folding his trousers. "But there was something..." He shook his head and grabbed a hanger from the cupboard.

"Oh, yeah?" Blair sat forward, curiosity pushing aside concern. "What? Something with your senses?"

Jim hung up his trousers before answering. "I'm not sure." He sat on the edge of his bed, facing Blair.

"Let's see if we can narrow it down. When did you first notice it?"

Jim closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall. "We got out of the truck and walked up the stairs. Jeremy met us, and then... and then Marcus appeared and hugged you, and..." His voice trailed off, and a small crease appeared between his brows.

"Something about Marcus?" Blair spoke softly.

"Yes." Jim's voice was a whisper. "There was a resonance, an echo..."

"Echo? What do you mean? Like words echoing?"

"I don't know!" Jumping up, Jim restlessly paced the small room, then stopped before Blair. His fingers jabbed the air. "Not just sound. It was more than that. Sound, and scent, and..." He shook his head, hands suddenly clenched.

"Jim," Blair's voice soothed. "You're trying too hard. Let it go, and maybe it'll be clearer in the morning."

Jim shot him a look compounded of frustration, relief and gratitude, then nodded. "Okay, Chief. It's been a long day, and I have a feeling that tomorrow's going to feel even longer."

Blair grinned, flipped off the light, and burrowed under the covers. "Yeah. I'm such a slave driver."

"You have no idea, Sandburg. No idea at all."

***

Blair stared out of the window at the stark, almost-winter landscape, and automatically pushed a lock of hair behind his ear. The cold seeping from the window soaked through his flesh into his bones and he shivered slightly, turned away from the bleak view and faced his partner.

"No more, Jim. Admit it, it's not working. You're exhausted. I'm exhausted." He collapsed onto a hard folding chair. "Let's go do some honest, hard labor and earn our keep."

Shoulders hunched forward, head bowed, Jim sat unmoving in his chair, a companion to Blair's that faced his. Dangling between his knees, Jim's hands quivered almost imperceptibly. With an odd little prick of concern, Blair reached out and gently rubbed Jim's arm. He could feel the tremors that shook his partner, lapping like waves through the deceptively still body before him.

"Hey, man, you go lie down for a while. I'll tell Brother Jeremy that you need to rest."

"No."

Jim raised his head and Blair bit back an exclamation. Jim looked haunted - there was no other word for it. His skin was the unhealthy color of uncooked dough, his eyes glassy and remote, and Blair hadn't seen that much pain in his expression since Incacha died.

Blair shot out of his seat and gently clasped Jim's upper arm. "C'mon, Jim. You've gotta lie down..."

Jim looked up at him and whispered. "I remembered something."

Blair squatted, still keeping hold of Jim's arm.

"Something Incacha taught you?"

Jim nodded, his breathing ragged. His hands balled into fists, and without thinking, Blair wrapped his free hand around one, rubbing it gently.

"Take your time, Jim. There's no hurry. You tell me when you can, 'cause I'll be here, waiting..." The soft words tumbled out, encouraging. The soft touches soothed and calmed.

"It's not much," Jim began, almost apologetically. "Just something he would do right before we would finish my lessons." Blair slid into the chair facing him, leaning forward, unconsciously mirroring his partner's posture. "He would hold my face like this..." Taking Blair's hands in his, Jim placed them on either side of his face. Blair allowed himself to be pulled forward and stood between Jim's knees, hands cupping Jim's cheeks and jaw.

"Now what?" Blair whispered.

Jim looked up at him, his expression so transparent that Blair suddenly felt he could see into a part of Jim that had been hidden away for years. Blair's mouth went dry and his heart battled against the confines of his chest. Jim slowly closed his eyes and tilted his head slightly, leaning into Blair's hand, rubbing his cheek lightly against the palm. He face relaxed fractionally, then he sighed and swallowed hard.

"He would lean forward and breathe his blessing, and part of his spirit, into me. First on my left side, above my ear..." Blair suited his actions to Jim's words, murmuring a brief blessing. "...then on my right side." Blair repeated his actions. "Then..." Jim raised his face, eyes still closed, voice almost inaudible. "...he would touch his forehead to mine and... and..."

Blair brought his face down until the smooth skin of their foreheads touched. He felt, rather than saw, Jim shudder at the contact. Jim's mouth opened slightly, expectantly. Blair closed his eyes, struggling to remain calm, despite the fact that every nerve in his body was screaming for him to do something... Something fast and hard and possessive.

"May the gods grant you strength, Sentinel. Strength of body and mind and spirit." Blair had no idea where the words came from. It was as if Jim himself had called them forth, and he breathed them into Jim's open mouth, the other man inhaling greedily, as if to suck them into his soul. Blair waited a moment more, then straightened, releasing Jim's face. He stepped back, bumping the backs of his legs into the chair behind him, and stumbled. A strong hand grabbed his arm and steadied him for a moment.

He stared at Jim, pleased to see his partner's color already improving. He felt his had probably drained to his feet.

"Did that help?"

Jim nodded tentatively, as if he wasn't sure of the consequences of the action, then more definitely.

"Yeah. A lot." He tried a small smile, which broadened quickly. He gave Blair's arm a squeeze, then released him and stood, stretching his arms over his head with a groan. "Let's get some lunch and then see what kind of penance Brother Jeremy has assigned us."

***

Lunch went quickly, even though Jim was asked to say grace. Jim ate his tuna casserole with gusto, and Blair followed suit, comforted by Jim's renewed vigor. When they had finished, Jim eagerly agreed to go with Brother Joseph and Brother Theodore to clear an overgrown patch of ground next to the orchard.

"Blair," said Jeremy, turning to him but not meeting his eyes, "you can work with Jim, or, if you'd prefer, Brother Marcus could use some help in the workshop."

"Oh, hey, Brother Marcus, aren't you working on restoring the rose window? That would be great! Unless... Jim, are you going to be all right?"

"I think I can manage by myself for an afternoon, Chief." Jim's grin reassured Blair that he hadn't taken offense at the query.

"Then I'm all yours, Brother," Blair said, following Marcus to the small out-building that housed the workshop.

"This is so beautiful, man," he breathed as he stepped inside the dim, dusty, cluttered room. Spread out before him like a half-completed jigsaw puzzle were the pieces of an elaborate stained glass window. Blair circled the enormous, paper-covered table on which they were laid out, gently touching a piece or two with a fingertip, taking care not to disturb them. All of the lead had been removed so that only the glass remained, and there were gaping holes in the pattern where even the glass was gone.

"Isn't it? So beautiful..." Marcus surveyed the window, hands clasped tightly before him. "We found it in pieces in a trash heap behind the old stables. It had been badly damaged in a hail storm at the turn of the century and thrown away." He fingered the pieces before him, then picked up one and eyed it with a smile. "You can help by filling in the blank areas of the pattern, and then I can cut the glass to fit."

Blair slipped on his glasses and leaned over the table to get a better look. When Blair straightened up, he was slightly surprised to find Marcus close beside him, holding a clipboard and pencil.

"Here's a pencil and a small-scale diagram of the window," the monk said. "You can trace repeated pieces on the full-sized template, and copy them here."

Blair nodded, eyes already tracing the intricate design, cataloging repeated patterns and blanks. "Thanks..." He moved around the table, picked up a piece of glass and moved it to a new location, carefully tracing it before returning the piece to its original spot. He noted the new piece on the diagram, and quickly lost all sense of time.

Colors - red, blue, green, yellow, white - swirled before him. Blair shoved his glasses up on his forehead and rubbed his eyes, perversely enjoying the discomfort of the pressure on his hot eyeballs. Negotiating the table, he wandered over to the door, still rubbing his eyes.

"Hey, Chief. Earn your keep?" Blair jumped at the unexpected voice, blinked, and was surprised to see Jim standing in the doorway. It was completely dark outside.

"What time is it? I got so involved..." He blinked again and focused on his partner's smiling face. Jim's hair was damp and his face clean, and he had even changed.

"Time to get ready for dinner. What happened? Is Brother Marcus a slave driver?"

Blair grinned and gestured Jim inside. "You have to see this, Jim. It's so cool - just like piecing together pottery shards." Hands flying, Blair explained what he was doing to Jim, and showed him the areas of the pattern he had completed.

"You've done a good job," Jim said, giving Blair's shoulder a brief squeeze.

"Yes, he has. It would have taken me weeks to get as much completed." Brother Marcus entered the room carrying a sheet of glass, the reflection from the blood-red pane staining his hands as if in gore. Blair ran over and grabbed the opposite edge, and they both bent over to lean it against the workbench. Straightening up, Blair glanced at Jim and froze. His partner's face was ashen.

"Jim? What is it?"

Jim swallowed convulsively, then shook his head. "Nothing. Just felt weird for a second there..." He smiled, a pale imitation of his normal grin, and Blair studied his face intently. "But I'm okay now."

"I don't think so." The younger man narrowed his eyes, cataloging his partner's wan complexion, the way Jim would not meet his eyes, the sudden stillness of Jim's body. "What is it?"

With a scowl, Jim glanced down. "Nothing, Sandburg." He plucked at Blair's shirt sleeve, releasing a cloud of dust. "You'd better get washed up before dinner, or Brother Jeremy will have your butt."

"In a minute, Jim. First, I want to know-"

"There's nothing to know, Chief. I'm fine. Now, get going. I'll be there in a few minutes."

Darting Jim a glance that clearly said 'We'll talk about this soon,' Blair headed back to the dormitory for a quick shower and change of clothing. Fifteen minutes later, still slightly damp about the edges, he was sitting at the refectory table, waiting impatiently for Jim and Brother Marcus to appear.

Jeremy glanced at the doorway, then sighed, his lips folded as tightly as his hands on the table before him. "Brother Michael, would you go and see what is detaining Brother Marcus and-"

"I am sorry for being late, Brother Jeremy." Jim strode into the room, nodded to Jeremy, glanced at Blair, and sat down, quickly unfolding his napkin and placing it in his lap. "I was asking Brother Marcus a few questions and we lost track of time." At the mention of the brother's name, all eyes in the room traveled to the door - Marcus entered and walked slowly over to his chair, hands folded at his waist, head slightly bowed.

"I hope these questions are not related to a police matter," said Jeremy mildly.

"Not at all."

As Brother Frederick said grace, Blair surreptitiously kept an eye on Jim. He was sure that no one else at the table realized that Jim was angry - not explosively enraged, but deeply, profoundly angry. Stealing a glance at Marcus, Blair was struck by the sudden change in the man. It was as if he had aged thirty years in half-an-hour. After the 'amen,' Marcus sat quietly, nodding slowly in response to a comment by Brother Frederick, but his face was pale, his plate untouched. His soft circlet of white hair gave him an innocent, vulnerable look. As if he could feel Blair's regard, Marcus looked up and met his eyes, then as quickly looked away.

Feeling like a spectator at a tennis match, Blair turned back to Jim, who was discussing the ground-clearing work to be done tomorrow with Joseph. Jim's hands were busy with his utensils and food, but although his laden fork was frequently raised in the air, it never actually made it into his mouth.

By the time they had been excused from the table, Blair was thoroughly confused and irritated. He followed Jim back to their room, feeling like Daniel ready to face the lions. Although, given the choice, Blair would have chosen the lions over an angry Jim every time.

"Okay, Jim. What the hell did you and Marcus talk about that would get you so pissed off and make him look like his puppy died?"

"Nothing, Chief."

The answer did not worry Blair - he had expected it. "C'mon, man. You know you're going to tell me sooner or later. Go ahead and dump and then we can get on with the evening."

Jim did not answer. He didn't even acknowledge that Blair had spoken. He stretched out on his bed, picked up his book and began to read. Resigning himself to waiting a couple of hours before prying the information out of Jim, Blair grabbed his notebook and pen, sat cross-legged on the bed, and began to write.

From the earliest moments of his relationship with Jim, Blair had discovered that he functioned on two levels around his partner. In addition to the usual conscious awareness of his friend, Blair was aware of Jim on a more fundamental level, almost unconsciously gathering and cataloging Jim's actions, using that information to see behind the cool, professional façade Jim presented to the world, to speak directly to the man. Although Blair never stopped writing, the conscious part of his mind directing the flow of words, he was also aware that Jim had stopped turning the pages of his book and was staring at him, concern and worry etched on his face. He looked like a man prepared to battle demons, but unsure where to find them. These facts eventually surfaced in Blair's conscious mind - he finished his train of thought, then put down his pen and met Jim's eyes.

"When are you going to tell me what's bothering you?"

"It's not my secret to tell, Chief."

"Then why do you keep looking at me like that? Like you want to say 'I'm sorry,' or jump into Blessed Protector mode. What did Marcus tell you..." His voice suddenly stopped working. Fear and shame ripped their way into him and settled in his gut. "Damn, damn, damn." It came out as a whisper. He could not bear to see Jim's concerned expression any more, and buried his hot face in his hands. "Jeremy promised they'd never tell... I was under a lot of stress, okay? It's not easy to be a college freshman at sixteen, especially when you're short and a nerd, as well. I just needed someplace to think, with people who wouldn't judge me... I really wasn't going to kill myself..."

The other bed creaked, then two hands clasped his knees and rubbed gently.

"Chief?" Jim's voice was soft, gently coaxing. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Blair's face popped out of his hands and he stared, wide-eyed, at Jim. "Didn't Marcus tell you why I first came to St. Sebastian's?" He was too startled to be embarrassed.

"No. Although I had wondered..." Jim's eyes remained solemn, but his mouth quirked a grin.

Blair's face dropped back into his hands.

"Shit."

The hands left, leaving only a lingering warmth, and he heard Jim settle back on his bed.

"Tell me." It wasn't an order, or a request.

Taking a gulp of air, Blair glanced up at Jim. He was waiting calmly, arms crossed over his chest, and Blair could detect only interest on his face.

"There isn't much to tell. I kinda lost it toward the end of my first semester at Rainier, and said a few things about suicide. My therapist said it was a combination of stress, hormones, and loneliness, and suggested I get away for a few days." He shrugged. "I called Naomi - she was in Santa Fe at the time - and she gave me Brother Jeremy's name and told me to spend a few days meditating here at St. Sebastian's." He smiled a little at the memory, and Jim's face softened, reflecting the smile. "I was really surprised when she suggested a monastery, 'cause Naomi doesn't really have much use for organized religion, but she said that Jeremy would take care of me. And he did. He didn't preach at me or anything; he and the other brothers just made me feel like there were people who cared for me, and that I belonged somewhere. And that's all there is to it."

"Why didn't you want me to know about this?"

"I don't know... I didn't want to be a spineless goober, I guess..." Blair could feel the heat rising in his face as he blushed, and ducked his head again. "Jim, there's a list as long as your arm of things I'm uncomfortable with, or afraid of. I didn't want to add another item."

"Sandburg," Jim said, his voice tinged with amusement, "that list is so long I wouldn't notice if you added a dozen items. But it sounds to me like you found good friends here, and that's what's important." He cleared his throat. "They helped you when you needed help, just like you help me when I need help," he added, his voice softer, almost tender. "Now, how about getting ready for bed?"

"Okay," Blair mumbled. He slid off the bed and grabbed his towel and toothbrush, then they walked to the bathroom together. There was something comforting about brushing his teeth at the sink next to Jim's, chatting as they washed, and returning to their room together.

It wasn't until he was changed and burrowed under the blankets that Blair realized Jim still hadn't told him what had happened, but by that time he was too sleepy to care.

***

"So, what's the game plan for this morning, Chief?"

Blair turned from the window and ran his hands through his hair. "Well, since we didn't have much success yesterday, I want to try something different." At Jim's raised eyebrows, he shrugged. "Yesterday you remembered what Incacha did at the end of each lesson. That was great, and it really seemed to help. But we're running out of time now, and we need more."

"What do you suggest?"

Blair looked at his partner, sitting squarely in the hard folding chair, hands folded tidily on his lap, squinting at the sunlight streaming through the window. He knew that although strong and self-assured, Jim was still oddly vulnerable, and he treasured the familiar urge he felt to keep Jim safe and whole. Catching Jim's eyes, Blair was instantly overwhelmed at Jim's look of complete trust. He gripped the back of his chair tightly.

"First, I want you to try to remember what else Incacha taught you, especially anything relating to your physical awareness exercises. We need to piece together as much as possible - what he did to get started, techniques he used to take you deeper without you losing yourself, ways he got you back out." Blair paced the tiny room, aware that Jim's eyes followed his every move. The calm, confident regard unnerved him. "You've gotta give me something to work with, man. I'm not only flying blind, here, but I can't hear or smell or taste or touch anything either!"

"Settle down, Sandburg. We'll figure this out." Jim nodded at Blair, and gestured him to his chair. "When I got that memory of Incacha yesterday, you were directing me to find the still place within me. That's when I could see Incacha and me, sitting together in front of the fire."

"You could see both of you?" Blair slid into his seat and leaned forward. "Are you sure you weren't looking at Incacha?"

Jim's eyes darkened for a moment, then he shook his head.

"No. I could see both of us sitting there, like I was observing the scene."

"How were you sitting?"

"I was sitting cross-legged on the ground, and Incacha was kneeling in front of me."

"Let's try it."

"What?"

"I said, let's try sitting the way you and Incacha sat. Maybe it will help spark more memories." At Jim's dubious look, he continued, adopting a confident tone he did not feel. "It's worth a try. I'll go get some pillows. This floor is pretty hard."

Blair returned quickly, having stripped a blanket and the pillows from their beds. Jim had moved the chairs out of the way against the wall.

"Put the blanket down first," Blair instructed, and once it was spread out to Jim's satisfaction, he dropped their pillows onto the thick wool.

Jim sat on one pillow, shifting around until he was comfortable. Blair knelt on the other, facing Jim.

"Close your eyes," Blair began, "and take a deep breath... Feel the air rushing into your lungs. Hold it, then let it out..." Blair continued his soft litany until he saw Jim's breathing slow, and his entire body relax. "Now, go to that still place, and tell me what you see."

"Incacha. Me."

"What are you both doing?"

"He leads me to our place, where I always have my lessons. We sit down next to the fire, and he takes some leaves and puts them into the flames. They make a lot of smoke, and he fans the smoke in my direction and tells me to breathe deeply. I cough a little, but in a minute, it gets easier to breathe the smoke."

"How long do you breathe it?"

"Not long. A minute, maybe. Then Incacha kneels in front of me and tells me that the smoke will help him lead me where I have to go."

"Why does he need help? He's a shaman, isn't he?"

"Yes, but he says he's only my temporary guardian, and the journey we take together will be brief. My permanent guardian will guide my longest, most difficult, and most rewarding journey."

"Your permanent guardian? That would be me, right?"

"He says my permanent guardian is the one who cares for me above all others, who watches over me to keep me strong, and whose steps never falter as he guides me to a full understanding of my body and my soul..."

"'Whose steps never falter...'" Blair murmured, rocking back on his heels, his head spinning as if he'd been sucker-punched. The keen edge of Jim's words pierced him. "No wonder this isn't working." Jim's eyes flew open, and Blair glared at him, anger momentarily holding the pain at bay. "I'm the wrong goddamn person, Jim! You've trusted a fraud - I'm not supposed to be doing this - someone else is!"

"What the hell do you mean? Of course you're supposed to be-"

"No, I'm not!" Blair surged to his feet. "Don't you understand? The reason I don't have a clue what I'm doing is because I'm not the one who is supposed to be doing this!" Jim sat looking up at him, bewildered, and Blair realized he could not bear to see the truth finally dawn in Jim's eyes - that for over two years, Jim had placed his trust in an impostor. Darting for the door, Blair slid on the blanket, lost his balance, and landed in an untidy heap on the floor.

Jim scrambled over to his partner and rested a hand lightly on his shoulder. Blair quietly lay as he had fallen, face screwed up tight against the pain, as effectively pinned by Jim's gentle touch as by heavy chains.

"Chief..." Jim rasped. "Blair. Listen to me." He shook Blair's shoulder gently. "I know you're the right one - Incacha knew you're the right one. You've never failed me-"

"Until now." Blair opened his eyes, staring fixedly at a faint water-stain on the ceiling.

"Until never!" Jim's fingers dug painfully into his muscles, then he released him with an awkward pat. Blair sat up slowly and hugged his knees to his chest. The pain inside him slowly eased, replaced by emptiness.

"Chief," Jim continued, shifting around until he was sitting comfortably beside Blair, "there isn't an instruction manual for this. I can tell you that for a fact."

"I know, Jim." Blair quirked half a smile and rested his chin on his knees. "I wish there was: 'Ten Easy Steps to Becoming Shaman of the Great City and Guardian of a Sentinel.' It's one thing to play shaman when your life isn't at stake, but now..." He closed his eyes briefly, trying to push down the fear. "I really feel like I'm out of my depth, here. There's nothing to guide me. I mean, I'm comfortable learning from books. Even when I'm doing fieldwork, books provide a foundation for my research. Without them..." He shrugged.

"You feel like you've lost your bearings." Jim nodded. "When all my senses started coming back online, I felt the same way. Then you showed up at the hospital, spouting some shit about me being way ahead of the curve. Normally I would have blown you off, Chief, but something, some instinct, told me to listen to you, go search you out. So I did." He stated the final sentence with an air of satisfaction, as if no further explanation of his actions was necessary.

Blair snorted. "Yeah, well, your instincts are good, man. Mine usually land me in trouble."

"Those aren't instincts you're talking about, Sandburg. They're hormones." Jim's smile softened the sting of his words.

"Very funny," said Blair without heat.

Jim grew serious. "You have to admit that your instincts have been right on target regarding my senses, and you haven't had a textbook to help you. You did it by instinct, because I needed help, because you're the only person who can help me this way." He blinked slowly and fixed his eyes on some imaginary spot on the wall. "What we're trying now is difficult. So difficult that even Incacha didn't know what to do to help me. That's why we could only get so far with my control."

"So you're saying I should trust my instincts more..."

"About my senses, Chief. Not about women." Jim wagged a finger at him, and Blair batted it absently.

"Yeah, right. I got that." Blair heaved a shaky sigh, struggling with the weight of Jim's trust. He was responsible for Jim's health, safety, and even his happiness, but there was more to it than that. It was more as if he was walking a tightrope over a chasm, balancing both Jim and himself, and there was no net. One mistake on his part could send them both plummeting. The thought of harming Jim was unbearable.

"Okay, Jim. Let's... let's give it a try."

They straightened the blanket and repositioned the pillows. Blair felt a faint curdling in his stomach and leaned against the wall for a moment, focusing on his breathing, until the sickly taste at the back of his throat faded. Jim sat cross-legged, watching him attentively.

"You can do it, Chief. Just don't think about it."

"That's easy for you to say, man. I think about everything..." he mumbled, but knelt on the pillow in front of Jim and closed his eyes. After a few slow, deep breaths, he felt calmer and opened his eyes.

Jim was waiting, attentive and relaxed, but Blair froze at the look on his face. Blair had seen that expression once or twice before - a complex combination of tenderness, pride, and absolute and total trust. Jim believed in him unreservedly.

Blair didn't know whether to be thrilled or terrified.

He rocked back on his heels, chewing his lip, then nodded. "Right. Close your eyes." Jim obeyed instantly, his relaxed demeanor never changing. Blair scooted closer to him, and laid his hands on Jim's knees, cupping them lightly. "Feel my hands - the pressure and the warmth. I want you to stay aware of my hands all the time, Jim. Don't lose that feeling - make it your anchor. Any time you think you might be getting lost, remember to feel my hands and know that I'm here. I won't let you go, and I won't leave you alone. Got it?"

Jim nodded slowly.

"Talk to me, Jim. Let me know you understand what I'm saying."

"I understand you, Chief. You're gonna keep me grounded with your hands." His hands slid on top of Blair's, rubbing them gently before stilling. They were a comforting weight on Blair's chilled fingers.

"Yeah. I'm going to keep you grounded." His fingers tensed on Jim's knees, digging into the soft denim and the hard muscles beneath. "Just remember that, Jim. Keep that thought. Now, feel your tongue..."

Slowly, carefully, as he had done the night of Jim's last allergy attack, Blair led Jim down his throat into his lungs. The words tumbled out of his mouth of their own accord, encouraging and warning, while his eyes never left Jim's face. He watched the faint play of expressions over other man's countenance, felt the supple skin of Jim's palms against the back of his hands, the soft denim beneath them.

"Beautiful," he breathed. "You're doing great. Try to expand your awareness. Sense the walls of your bronchial tubes... What are they..." His mouth snapped shut.

Jim had stopped breathing.

"No..." It was more a moan than a word. He couldn't believe it. Not again.

Fear trickled down his spine, puddling in his gut. He turned away from it, refusing to acknowledge that terror was quickly filling him. Instead, he squeezed Jim's knees and gave them a little shake. Jim's hands slipped from his like dead weights.

"C'mon, Jim. Feel my hands. They're your anchor, remember? Remember that?"

Jim sat frozen before him, his face paling rapidly. Blair looked closer at his partner, taking in the blue tinge coloring Jim's lips and the unnatural waxy appearance of his skin, then felt the blood drain from his face as well. He grabbed one of Jim's hands and turned it over, his fingers fumbling at the wrist. There was no pulse. He could not find a pulse.

"What have I done?" Blair transferred his attention to Jim's neck, fingers searching unsuccessfully for the artery. It was there, he knew it, but nothing throbbed beneath his touch.

There was no time to summon help, no time to contemplate and weigh the options. He had only a minute or two to bring Jim back, otherwise...

No. That wasn't going to happen.

"Jim, I'm still here. I haven't left you..." he began, not caring that his voice shook and cracked as he spoke. "Hold on to the sound of my voice. I'm going to find you, but you have to help me and hold on. Okay? Can you do that?"

Blair cupped his hands around Jim's face, flinching at the touch of chilled flesh. He leaned forward, his cheek brushing Jim's left temple, and exhaled slowly.

"Hold on, Jim. I'm bringing you back."

He did the same on Jim's right, fighting the urge to speed up. He couldn't allow himself to fail. He had one shot at this - it had to be perfect the first time. Jim wouldn't survive long enough for him to try it again.

"Find your anchor, Jim."

Then he touched his forehead to Jim's and suppressed a shudder. It was like touching raw, chilled meat. He took another deep breath.

"Let my breath warm you. Let your heart follow mine, beat for beat. Let me be your anchor and guide you back from the place where you are lost." He squeezed his eyes shut. "Please..."

Blair waited, feeling as if his heart had stopped as well. Suddenly, Jim gave a galvanic shudder and gasped, gulping air greedily. He listed abruptly, and Blair grabbed his shoulders to stop him from toppling over, fingers digging into Jim's muscles in relief. Jim's hands quivered, and, like a plucked string, the vibration quickly moved up his arms and down his torso, until he was shaking like an old drunk with the DT's.

Grabbing the pillow he was kneeling on, Blair slowly lowered Jim to the floor, so that Jim's head rested on the pillow. He folded the edges of the blanket over his partner's thrashing limbs and, lying down beside him, held him tightly, as much to stop him from hurting himself as to keep him warm. As he held on, Blair kept up a steady stream of soft words, saying nothing in particular, but a great deal in general.

"It's okay, Jim. You're safe, you're going to be all right. I've got you, and I'll make sure nothing happens to you..." He repeated the words over and over, but neither man seemed to care.

Jim's shaking gradually began to lessen until he lay still, eyes closed, his face with only slightly more color than the snowy pillow beneath him. Blair unwrapped his arms from around Jim and sat up, brushing his hair out of his face.

"Lie still, Jim," he said, getting to his knees, glad that there were things to do. If he were busy, he wouldn't have to think about what had almost happened, about his failure. "I'm going to get Brother Jeremy-"

"No!" Jim's voice was faint, but the objection in his eyes was unmistakable.

"We need to get you to bed, man, and I can't lift you alone." Blair scrambled to his feet, wincing at the stiff muscles in his legs, and started for the door.

"Stay..."

The word stopped him cold.

"Please..."

He turned back and knelt beside Jim, placing his hand on Jim's forehead. It was cool, but far warmer than it had been fifteen minutes earlier. Jim's skin was touched with a faint pink wash, like the statue of Galatea coming to life, his breathing easier.

"I want to get you up off the floor, Jim, and into bed. If you don't want me to ask Brother Jeremy, I'll ask Joseph or Theodore-"

"No."

"Why not?"

Blair watched the fiery color rise up Jim's throat to stain his face. His partner's gaze flickered, shifted, and ended up focused somewhere over Blair's left shoulder.

"Why don't you want me to get help, Jim?" he repeated.

Jaw tightening, Jim swallowed convulsively before answering. "I don't want them to see me like this..."

Blair nodded, a smile brushing the corners of his mouth. "I know what that's like. But you need to rest on something more comfortable than the floor..."

Jim shook his head.

"No. I just need to lie here for a little. Then we have to try this again-"

"No way in hell, man!" Thoughts of what had almost happened flooded into Blair, clogging his throat. "You hear me, Jim? No. Way."

"Chief, I still have to learn-"

"Listen to me! This is way too dangerous! Not only did you stop breathing this time, but your heart stopped!" His arms scribed great arcs in the air. "You were this close to death," he said, measuring a hair's breadth with his forefinger and thumb. Rocking to his feet, Blair began to pace the small room. "This is not something we can keep trying until we get it right! It's too great a risk!"

"I'm willing to take that risk."

Blair whirled around and glared at Jim. "Well, I'm not!"

Jim stirred and shifted beneath the blanket until he was propped up on one elbow, head resting on his hand.

"I need your help, Chief. You're the only person who can help me."

Blair stared at him, heart sinking, then slowly shook his head.

"I thought that, too, Jim. You had really convinced me that I was the one Incacha meant. But I'm not." He tensed unconsciously, waiting for the pain that he knew would come. "At best I'm another 'temporary guardian.' At worst..." He could see the hurt and fear growing in Jim's eyes, mirroring the pain filling him, and forced himself to continue meeting Jim's gaze. "At worst, I've kept you from finding your true guardian..."

"That has got to be the biggest load of crap I've ever heard," Jim ground out as he struggled to sit up.

Blair automatically reached out to help, but snatched his hand away before he could touch his partner. Helping Jim was no longer his place.

"It isn't, you know," he said simply, and shrugged. At best, he was a failure. At worst... He looked at the man sitting before him, the man who could have been killed because he, Blair Sandburg, thought he had the answers. And if he didn't, why, he'd make them up... Reckless, careless, presumptuous, cloaked in the mantle of an academic - who did he think he was fooling with his research and tests?

The pain came then, and he leaned against the wall and let it take him.

***

Blair had no idea how long Jim had been talking before he became aware of it. Perhaps Jim had just repeated the same thing over and over until the words began to sink in. Perhaps he was monitoring Blair and started speaking when he noticed Blair begin to stir. Whatever Jim had done, Blair knew he had to listen now.

"Remember jumping out of the plane, Chief? Of course you remember - you couldn't forget something like that. That's what it felt like. I was deep inside, listening to you, and suddenly I... slipped, I guess is the best way to describe it, and I was falling a great distance. I had no control, no way of stopping myself."

Back to the wall, Blair bent his knees and slid down until he was sitting, facing Jim. His partner sat cross-legged, still wrapped in the blanket. Jim's eyes flickered when their gazes met, but he did not look away.

"As I fell," he continued, "I could hear your voice. It stayed with me and gave me a focus when everything else tumbled around me. I concentrated on your voice, and after a while I started to understand the words, and I seemed to slow down. I listened harder, and gradually my fall slowed until I was drifting, suspended in..." Jim's jaw tightened, and Blair could almost smell his fear. Jim closed his eyes briefly. "...in nothing. That was worse than falling. But I had your voice to hold on to, to anchor me."

Jim suddenly lowered his gaze and stared at the floor, and Blair was surprised to see his color darken.

"I could feel your hands, too. Not like they were touching me - my body - but I knew they were your hands. They surrounded me..." He frowned and shook his head once. "That's not right. I can't describe exactly how your hands felt to me then, but they kept me safe." He looked thoughtful. "Protected. Sheltered..." He looked at Blair again and nodded. "That's how I know you're the one, Chief. Incacha taught me a lot, but he could never guide me that far into myself."

Blair leaned his head against the cool cinder block wall. Jim's words were confusing, but they also provided a glimmer of hope. Perhaps his true place was beside Jim, working with this man who was as different from Blair Sandburg as night to day, but who somehow dovetailed with him, creating a whole that was greater than the sum of its parts. The man who completed him.

"Do you remember what brought you back?"

Jim shivered and opened his mouth. Then he hesitated, snapped his mouth shut, and shook his head. Blair was not convinced.

"What brought you back, Jim?" he pressed.

"You filled me." The words were a whisper.

"What?"

Jim squared his shoulders and met Blair's eyes, almost defiant.

"I felt you seep inside me and fill me, and then I was back."

Shocked, the breath driven from his lungs, Blair stared at the man sitting before him. "Is that what it was like?"

Jim nodded.

"I had no idea..."

Jim's mouth quirked and he reached out, offering up the inside of his wrist like a sacrifice. "Even our heartbeats, Chief."

Blair's eyes grew wide. "Our heartbeats?" He pressed the palms of his hands onto the cold linoleum, wondering briefly how the room could tilt so sickeningly when he was sitting down.

"Yeah. Just like you said when you called me back." Jim suddenly stretched his arms over his head with a groan, shedding the blanket like an old skin. "'Let your heart follow mine, beat for beat.' I heard every word." He winced and slowly rose, testing joints and tendons as he straightened.

"You mean you were adjusting your heartbeat to match mine?"

"Not consciously," Jim said with a shrug. He checked his watch. "I've noticed that usually my heartbeat changes in response to changes in yours. When yours speeds up, mine changes to match the rhythm. Like two drummers who are playing off each other."

"Jim, this is incredible." Blair scanned the room, almost expecting to see his notebook and pen appear before him. "I wonder if I can get two heart monitors to check if there's a distance component to this-"

"Forget it, Sandburg." Jim scooped up the blanket and nodded his head at the pillows. "Grab those. We'll have to shake the blanket outside before we put it back on the bed."

"I thought you wanted to try this again?"

Jim shook his head and headed for the door. "No. Right now I just want my lunch. Then I have an appointment with a nasty patch of brambles."

Still feeling as if the world was tipped at an unfamiliar angle, Blair watched him leave.

"Sandburg!"

"Coming," he muttered, scrambling to his feet and grabbing the pillows. He followed Jim down the corridor. "I wonder if the department would buy some heart monitors..."

***

Blair walked slowly over to the workshop, his face tilted up to catch the late fall sun. Lunch had been surreal. He couldn't help but stare at Jim as he had ravenously packed away his soup and sandwiches, looking pretty lively for a man who had had no heartbeat just two hours earlier.

Once or twice he had intercepted glances exchanged between Jim, Brother Marcus and Brother Jeremy, like some weird game of peek-a-boo. When Jim had noticed him looking, however, he had lowered his gaze to his plate and kept it there during the rest of the meal. Jeremy and Marcus wouldn't look at him, either, even when he had asked Jeremy a direct question. At the end of lunch, Marcus had asked Blair to go ahead to the workshop - he promised to join Blair later.

Blair propped open the heavy doors, allowing the glaring sunlight to spill across the dusty floor. It caught edges of glass, filling the room with streaks of color as iridescent as a peacock's tail. Grabbing the clipboard and sliding on his glasses, he moved over to the enormous table spread with the fragments of the rose window and resumed his search for patterns in the glass.

He had just finished sketching in a large section, feeling very pleased with his progress, when a shadow fell across the table and he looked up, startled.

"Oh, hey, Brother Marcus. Look at this..." He gestured to the carefully drawn outlines of pieces that filled a curve in the window. "This repeats the lower section exactly-"

"Blair."

"Yeah?" Blair turned and squinted. Brother Marcus stood just inside the door, his stout figure backlit by the strong light, his wreath of white hair haloed around his head. He looked like an angel - the kind who showed his devotion through the labors of his body, rather than the beauty of his singing.

"We must talk." His tone was apologetic, as if he bore bad news.

"What's wrong? Has something happened to Jim?" The clipboard clattered to the floor unheeded, and Blair started out the door.

"No." Marcus's hand caught his arm, then quickly released him. "Jim is fine."

"My mother?"

Marcus smiled faintly. "She's fine as far as I know."

"Then what?" Blair eyed him suspiciously, then raised his chin. "I already told Jim about why I first came to St. Sebastian's."

Marcus moved around the table, and Blair could see his color rise. "I'm glad you were open with Jim, but that was between you and us. None of us would ever repeat that to anyone else," Marcus said stiffly. He perched on a stool next to a workbench cluttered with soldering irons, rolls of soldering wire, and scraps of lead. "Come sit down."

Blair slid onto a stool facing Marcus and waited.

Hands clasped over his stomach, Marcus glanced once at Blair, then fixed his gaze on the rose window.

"It has to do with your father."

"My what?" Blair goggled at the unexpected words.

"Your father," repeated Marcus patiently.

"What do you know about my father? Nobody, not even Naomi, knows who he is."

Marcus shook his head, his hands tightening on each other, fingers pale against his dark robes. His eyes met Blair's and held.

"Blair, Jeremy and I have known your mother for a long time."

"Yeah, that's what she told me."

"We've known her for almost thirty years..."

"What are you trying to say, Marcus?" He was beginning to get irritated. "You can drop the hints and roundabout stuff. Just say it."

Marcus straightened and swallowed hard.

"I'm your father."

"No." It was said more as a matter of form, rather than a true objection.

"It's true."

"No," Blair repeated, adding force to the word. "No. Naomi always said she didn't know who he was. She wouldn't lie to me."

"She knew, but I asked her not to say anything," Marcus said quietly. "And then later on, when all the charges were brought against me, against Jackie Kosinski, she probably decided that it was better that she forget."

"No!" Blair shook his head, frowning, and jumped off the stool. "No way, man!" He circled the large table, head still shaking. "Not possible."

"It is possible, Blair." Marcus slowly stood. "It was 1968, the summer between my junior and senior year in college. I was a kid from the mid-west, from Chicago, and I wanted to go to San Francisco, take in the sights, get a taste of the drugs, sex, and rock 'n' roll..."

Blair stopped at the far side of the table. Without thinking, he fingered a small piece of ruby glass from the fragmented window before him. Its edges were as sharp as the pain growing inside him.

"We met at a concert, then went on to a party afterward," Marcus continued quickly. "Naomi was the most exciting girl there - radiant, intelligent and so beautiful it almost short-circuited my mind, not to mention my body. We smoked a little - not much, because I wasn't used to it - and then we decided to blow the party and go for a walk in the park." Suddenly he looked away, his face growing ruddy. "The walk turned into something else..."

Blair abruptly turned, crossing his arms over his chest and hunching his shoulders.

"It wasn't necessarily you. Naomi said she was with lots of guys then..." His voice quavered.

"Listen to me, Blair," Marcus said. "For two incredible months Naomi and I were inseparable. Then I had to go back to school. I told her I loved her and asked her to come back with me, or to wait until I graduated and could come back out for her, but she wouldn't. She said it was time for her to move on..." Blair could hear his initial calmness slowly eroding, scraped away layer by layer to reveal the raw, bloody agony beneath. "I didn't argue, even though it hurt like hell when she told me. I had my pride. I went back to school, and a couple of months later, I received a letter. Naomi wrote that she was pregnant... with my child. She didn't want money or anything, she just wanted me to know I was going to be a father."

Blair didn't want to believe him, but the wealth of detail that Marcus placed before him was compelling... No. It wasn't possible. Blair hugged himself tighter, holding the pain in, afraid that if he loosened his grip he'd shatter into sharp, jagged pieces, like the window behind him.

"I was angry, Blair. Angry and hurt. I wrote back asking her how she knew the child was mine, even though I knew she had been only with me the entire summer. I accused her of..." His rough voice stopped abruptly. "God forgive me for the things I wrote, although I certainly do not deserve His forgiveness. Or Naomi's. I told her never to acknowledge me as the father, never to tell my son or daughter my name, and she did as I asked..."

"Why are you telling me this?" Blair said harshly.

"Because yesterday, after you had left, Jim told me he knew."

"Jim?" Blair whirled around, carelessly knocking the table and jarring pieces of glass out of place. "Jim said that?"

Marcus nodded, misery imprinted on his face, obvious in every move he made. "I didn't tell him. Jim said he could see the resemblance."

Jim saw it. Saw something that connected the two of them. Blair could discount Marcus's words and ignore the meshing of fact and date - it was still possible to convince himself that Marcus's story was a lie. But if Jim saw it... then it must be true. Blair bowed his head in defeat. He bit his lip to keep from crying out.

"Then it's true." He choked on the words.

"It's true," Marcus echoed softly. "Jim said that he would leave the decision whether or not to tell you up to me, but that you deserved to know. I spoke with Jeremy." Blair shot him a glance and Marcus nodded. "Yes, Jeremy knew about you. He was in San Francisco with me that summer, and he helped me compose my letter to Naomi. Wait," he said, holding up his hand as Blair opened his mouth. "I wrote the letter. Every nasty word of it was mine. Jeremy had just listened to my hopes and dreams, and then my disappointments."

Blair leaned on the table, no longer confident that his legs would hold him up. To find out this way - it was both too little and too much. That a man he had trusted, befriended, shared his thoughts and joys with would have deceived him for so long... His stomach lurched and twisted, bile rising acid-sharp in his throat.

"What am I supposed to say? 'Hey, dad, good to finally meet you?' 'I'm glad you finally decided to tell me?' 'So, what've you been doing these past twenty-eight years?'" He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to master the pain. "I can't do that, Marcus."

"Blair, I'm sorry..."

"Yeah, well, I'm sorry, too. I'm sorry I trusted you, I'm sorry I loved you. I'm sorry you ever came into my life."

With as much dignity as he could muster, Blair gathered his pain around him, turned and walked out. Skirting the main buildings, he headed toward the orchard, now as frozen and lifeless as his heart.

The air was crisp, and he sucked it inside in deep, desperate gulps. It froze the pain in his chest into ugly jagged lumps and then scoured him clean. With a shout, Blair welcomed the cold, opening his coat and holding out his arms as he trudged through the waves of pale dead grass. He could think about the cold, about being cold, without worrying that he would suddenly feel something, anything that would remind him of what he had just been told.

Blair stumbled on a stone and cursed, reaching down with frozen fingers to massage his ankle. It wasn't sprained or broken, just slightly twisted, a little tender. He would have no problem walking back to St. Sebastian's when he wanted to. If he wanted to. Stopping made him realize how far he had walked, and how much he needed a rest. To his left, an old dry-stone wall described the outer perimeter of the orchard, and probably the edge of the monastery's lands. It was in need of repair, but it was sunny, dry and relatively flat on top. He scrambled up, facing the outside world, losing himself in his thoughts.

A twig snapped. Two. The sound of someone's noisy progress through the orchard roused Blair, and he smiled briefly. Of course Jim would follow him and make sure Blair heard him so he wouldn't be startled. Trust Jim to think of that. Trust Jim to follow him and check on him. Trust Jim...

"That's why you sensed echoes and resonances, wasn't it, Jim?" He didn't bother to turn around or speak above a murmur.

"Yeah." Jim came up behind him and stopped. "But I didn't realize that at the time."

"What gave you the idea?"

"When you were helping him put down a sheet of glass in the workshop. It was like looking at a slightly distorted reflection of you. Your scents are similar, and certain gestures..." His voice trailed off and he stepped closer. One hand pressed into Blair's shoulder. "Jesus, Chief, you're freezing!"

Blair allowed Jim to turn him around, and sat quietly as Jim buttoned his coat, turned up his collar, and fussed over warming his numb hands. It hurt when Jim chafed his icy fingers, cradling them between his own warm hands and blowing on them, but it was a good hurt - the pain of attention, rather than the pain of neglect. He shivered, suddenly unbearably cold, and raised his face to his partner.

"He didn't want me, Jim. He knew about me, and he didn't want me." His face screwed up like he was going to cry, but he knew there were no tears in him for this. Just the bright, sharp pain of rejection.

Jim's hands tightened on his. "That's not true, Chief. It wasn't personal - he just didn't want Naomi's child after she had rejected him."

"It sure feels personal," Blair muttered, frowning down at their clasped hands.

"I'm sure it does," Jim agreed. "But it must mean something that he's been your friend for so long."

Blair shrugged. "It sucks when you find what you've been looking for, and realize that you didn't want it after all."

Jim smiled, tight-lipped. "Marcus isn't Timothy Leary or Jim Morrison, but he's a good man."

"He's an ex-mobster who sang to the Feds and has been hiding out as a monk for the past eighteen years. Not my idea of a dream dad."

Jim seemed satisfied with his first-aid efforts and released Blair's hands, then settled close to Blair on the wall. Surveying the dead landscape before them, Blair shoved his hands into his pockets and frowned.

"What did he say when you told him you knew the truth?"

"He admitted it right away. In some ways, he seemed relieved."

"Then you got angry." Blair hunched his shoulders and shivered again.

With no fuss or fanfare, Jim slung his arm across Blair's shoulders and pulled him close. "I wanted to throw him up against the wall and punch his lights out."

Blair snickered and shifted until he was comfortable against Jim's side. "That's my Blessed Protector."

"Yeah, well..." Jim cleared his throat, sounding profoundly uncomfortable. "I'm glad I didn't. I don't need to piss off the Almighty any more than I already have."

"So what did you do?" It suddenly struck Blair as strange that he could talk about this so calmly, but then, he was talking to Jim, and he had discovered that he could pretty much say anything to his partner. Jim's arm suddenly tightened around him, and he looked up into Jim's rapidly reddening face. "Oh, God, Jim. What the hell did you do?" He didn't know whether to be frightened or amused.

"Calm down, Chief." Jim stared off into the distance, a tiny smile folding the corners of his mouth. "I told him what he missed."

"Huh?"

"I told him what he missed," Jim repeated, turning solemn. "Your first steps. Your first day of school. Your college graduation." He glanced at Blair, then looked away again. "And then I told him if he didn't say something soon he'd miss seeing you get your doctorate, and become a professor, and make your mark in your field. I said he could either watch from the sidelines or ask to become a part of your life..."

"They teach you to use dirty tricks like that in Covert Ops?"

Jim shot him a stealth smile. "Anything to get the job done."

"Aw, shit." Blair scrubbed his face with his hands and heaved a sigh. "I can't hate the man, as much as I'd like to. The stupid thing is, I understand why he did it. I don't agree with what he did, but I understand it. What am I gonna do?"

"That's your call, Chief. You don't have to make any decisions right now, though. It might be a good idea to sleep on it."

"Since when did you get so wise, Detective?" Blair prodded Jim gently in the ribs. Jim tightened his hold on Blair and then poked him in the side with his free hand, a cozy and familiar gesture.

"Since always, Chief. You just never noticed."

Blair chuckled and then looked around. "It's getting dark. It'll be dinner soon. I suppose we should get back before they send out the bloodhounds."

Jim unwrapped his arm from around Blair's shoulders and Blair felt suddenly bereft. Cold and bereft. Cold and bereft and very, very reluctant to return to St. Sebastian's. As soon as he got down from the fence, Jim slung his arm back across Blair's shoulders and they walked slowly across the darkening fields.

It was completely dark as they approached the main building. Blair's steps slowed until Jim had to practically push him forward.

"Jim..." he said, stopping outside the door and shrugging off Jim's arm. "I don't think I can go in there and eat dinner like nothing happened."

Jim tilted his head a little, the porch light catching the clean planes of his face, burnishing his flesh so that he looked like some ancient idol - the one who was both wise and compassionate. "Okay, Chief. Want me to bring you a plate?"

"No, I'm not really hungry. I think I'll take a shower to warm up and go read in bed." He opened the door and followed Jim inside. "Maybe everything will be clearer in the morning."

Jim inhaled and his expression glazed over. "Yeah. Okay."

"What's for dinner, Jim?" Blair smirked.

"Lasagne..." It was a prayer of thanks to a benevolent God.

"Go eat, man," Blair laughed and shooed Jim toward the refectory. He turned on his heel and chuckled all the way to their room.

***

Showered and changed into sweatpants and tee-shirt, Blair was startled by a brisk knock at the door. He opened it to find Brother Joseph, smiling and holding a tray.

"Brother Jeremy asked me to bring you some dinner."

Raking a hand through his hair, Blair looked at the heaping, fragrant plate of lasagne and felt his stomach rumble.

"Thanks." He took the tray. "Oh, and please thank Brother Jeremy for me."

"Of course. You can return the tray to the kitchen when you're finished."

Blair set the tray on the desk and pulled up the chair. Within an astonishingly short period of time the plate was clean, and Blair crept down the corridors to the kitchen with the tray, returning to his room just as quietly.

Climbing into bed, Blair picked up his book and rested it on his knees. He started to open it, stared at the white wall before him, then let it fall closed. He couldn't even pretend to read right now. What the hell was he going to do?

A father. His father. He tried out the words several times, but they sounded alien and unfamiliar - words that described other people, but not him. Those words could have described him, if Marcus had said something earlier. His worst childhood fear had just been realized - to be known but not acknowledged, deemed unworthy of notice or attention... Sudden pain quickly filled him, and was as quickly gone. Only the ache of remembered anguish remained, leaving a tender place in the middle of his chest. If, if, if... Blair grimaced. 'If' hadn't happened, no matter how much he wanted otherwise. The point was that Marcus had spoken, and what was Blair going to do about it?

He had three options. Accept Marcus and let him further into his life, reject him and never see or speak to him again, or ignore the subject and go on as before. Accept. Reject. Ignore. Go. Stop. Wait.

He shook his head and wished that Jim was back from dinner so that they could talk some more. The difficulty with being an academic was that he could see all sides of the problem and could make a good case for any of those options. Jim had such a clear-minded way of looking at things. Like a talented surgeon, he could cut through the 'ifs' and 'buts' and 'might-have-beens' so easily, revealing the underlying truth. As much as he helped Jim find his way with his senses, Jim helped him find his way through the tangle of evasions, prevarications, and obfuscations that somehow crept into his life.

Dammit, what was he going to do?

A rapid knock on the door startled him, and before he could speak, Brother Michael peered in, face pale.

"Blair, there's an emergency..."

"Jim."

He didn't wait for Michael's acknowledgment, just skidded out the door and down the corridor. Jim was in trouble. He knew it. He took the corner wide and his stockinged feet slid on the polished floor, slamming him into the wall. Not even bothering to curse, he pushed off and dashed to the refectory, grabbing onto the door jamb to make the corner.

A wall of coarse brown robes blocked his view, but he could hear sounds that were hardly human - gasping, choked cries, cut brutally short, harsh wheezes forced out by brute strength. Then a rhythmic muffled thumping that sounded terrifyingly like heels hitting the floor.

"Jim!" The robes parted before him like the waters of the Red Sea, and he was on his knees, his hands clutching the broad shoulders, before he finished the word.

Jim's face was terracotta, his skin shiny with sweat. He was gagging and trying unsuccessfully to sit up at the same time. Blair shifted his grip and pulled Jim onto his side facing him, his hand sandwiched between Jim's head and the cold floor. Jim choked and his face darkened, a sharp contrast to his pale, bulging eyes. A thin string of spittle dribbled from the corner of his mouth and trailed, snail-like, over Blair's wrist.

"What happened?" he asked at large, not bothering to notice who was crouching next to Jim - his eyes were only for his partner.

"He was eating dinner, then started choking," someone said. "Theodore tried the Heimlich, but it didn't seem to help..."

"Okay, okay, Jim," Blair crooned, lying down on the hard floor beside Jim, his free hand stroking Jim's shoulder and upper back. "I'm here... Relax, calm down, okay? C'mon, if you can calm down you'll be able to breathe better. I'm right here, and I'm going to help you feel better, but you've gotta listen to me..."

Blair continued talking, a soft wash of words, and stroked Jim's arm and back gently. Gradually Jim calmed and the dreadful wheezing in his chest quieted. Blair kept up his stroking, but fell silent. His eyes never left Jim's face, and he was pleased when Jim's color improved and his breathing eased. Jim closed his eyes, and appeared to doze. Finally, convinced that the immediate danger was over, Blair glanced up, surprised to find that only Jeremy and Marcus were still there.

"I sent the others to pray," Jeremy said, an oddly gentle expression on his face. "Should I call an ambulance?"

"No, that won't be necessary." Blair took charge. "But I've got to get Jim up off this cold floor."

"I will call some of the brothers in to help." Jeremy disappeared.

Blair heard a rustle, then Marcus knelt beside Jim. "Raise his head a little." Without a word Blair complied, and Marcus slipped a thick, folded towel beneath Jim's head, cushioning it. Blair sat up and tucked his chilled, squashed hand under his arm, his other hand still on Jim's shoulder.

"Thanks," he said, staring resolutely at his partner.

Marcus didn't reply. Out of the corner of his eye, Blair could see Marcus fold his hands and bow his head, and the simple gesture touched him deeply.

A quiet hubbub at the doorway caught his attention. Jeremy led Theodore and Frederick, who were carrying a folding canvas stretcher.

"Shall we take Jim to the infirmary or back to your cell?" Jeremy asked.

"I think he'll be more comfortable in our room." Blair shook Jim's shoulder gently. "Jim, c'mon, man... Wakey, wakey. We're going to get you to bed."

"Okay, Chief," he mumbled, eyes still closed. When Blair tried to roll him back onto the stretcher, however, his head snapped up and he grabbed Blair's arm. "No!"

"Jim, this is the easiest way to get you to bed," Blair coaxed, but Jim shook his head and gripped Blair's arm like a life-line. "Hey, how about a little cooperation here, man."

"Want to walk..."

"Jim, it's a long way back to our room, and I can't carry you. Please..."

Jim was silent, his brow furrowed. Then he nodded.

"'Kay, but don't leave me."

"I won't. Now, roll back." When Blair had settled Jim onto the canvas to his satisfaction, he nodded to Frederick and Theodore. They lifted the heavy stretcher, grunting softly. Jim winced and blindly lifted his hand. Blair snagged it, then nodded to the brothers, and the strange, slow procession made its way down the corridor.

There was no room to maneuver in their tiny cell, so Jim tottered the few steps from the door to his bed, leaning on Blair. He sat heavily on the side of the bed, blinking slowly, like some sleepy bear roused early from its winter nap. Jeremy and Marcus followed them in, standing, like silent guardians, at the foot of the bed. After quietly thanking Frederick and Theodore for their help, Blair knelt before Jim and began to unlace his boots.

"Almost there, Jim. Let's get these off you, and then you can lie down and rest."

As Blair worked, Jim fumbled with the buttons on his shirt until Jeremy brushed his hands away and undid them himself. Once his boots were off, Jim undid his trousers and, with Blair and Jeremy's help, managed to shuck them. Clad in his boxers, he slipped under the blankets with a shiver and again reached out for Blair.

"I'm here." Blair sat on the edge of the narrow bed and clasped Jim's hand. Closing his eyes, Jim pulled their joined hands to his chest and sighed as if in relief.

Ignoring Jeremy and Marcus, who hovered in the background, Blair searched Jim's face. He didn't like what he found. Jim's color was better, but now his skin was dry and dull. Blair held the back of his hand to Jim's cheek, then forehead, and felt his dwindling fear surge back. Jim had a fever. It wasn't very high, but he needed to get it down before it got any worse.

He turned to Jeremy. "Jim's feverish. Can I have a basin of water, a washcloth and some towels?"

"I'll get them," said Marcus, and disappeared out the door.

Blair reached up and ran his fingers through the spiky tufts of Jim's mussed hair, smoothing it back gently. Jim squeezed Blair's hand and pressed it tightly to his chest, a deeply intimate gesture that warmed and comforted Blair. He could feel Jim's heart beating beneath the smooth flesh and hard muscle, a reminder that, despite his strength of mind and body, Jim was still vulnerable to many things. Things that he was counting on Blair to protect him from. A hand on his shoulder startled Blair - he had forgotten that Jeremy was still in the room.

"Is there anything else we can do to help - besides our prayers, of course."

"No. Jim and I have to do this together." He knew that sounded odd, but it was the truth, and he wasn't feeling up to lying to Jeremy.

"You know that Marcus will do anything-"

"I know," Blair interrupted, impatient with Jeremy for introducing the subject. This wasn't the time to worry about Marcus and their relationship - Jim needed him. That one fact was enough to sweep every other concern from his mind. "Brother Jeremy, once Jim is better I'll think about what Marcus told me. But until then..." He shrugged.

"I understand." Jeremy gave his shoulder a pat, then opened the door for Marcus, who had returned with the basin and towels. Following Blair's instructions, they laid a towel over Jim's pillow and placed the basin within easy reach.

"Blair, can I..." began Marcus, but Jeremy shook his head firmly and steered him toward the door.

"Not now, Marcus." He turned back to Blair. "We will be praying in the chapel tonight. If you need help, call out. I will make sure that one of the brothers will be listening."

At Blair's murmurs of thanks, the two monks left, closing the door carefully behind them.

"Jim, lemme have my hand back, okay?" Blair tried to disengage his hand from Jim's grasp, but Jim frowned and held it tighter. "Hey, buddy, I just want to make you feel better... C'mon, Jim." Eventually Blair's coaxing worked, and Jim relinquished his hold.

Blair soaked the washcloth, wrung it out thoroughly, and gently wiped Jim's face, removing the floor's dust and grime from his cheeks and jaw. Jim tilted his head into the cloth, rubbing against it lightly, his face relaxing more with each stroke. Making a cool compress with the washcloth, Blair laid it on Jim's forehead and rested his hand on Jim's chest, kneading the blanket softly.

"What are we going to do about this?" Blair murmured after a few minutes, dampening and replacing the compress on Jim's forehead. "I don't have any idea what set you off this time, man. You really scared me, you know."

Jim stirred and blinked open bloodshot eyes. "Sorry, Chief. I didn't mean to make things worse for you."

Blair smacked him lightly on the chest. "Don't be stupid, Jim. It's not your fault. I just wish we had more data. You feel up to talking about it?"

"Yeah."

Blair reached over to his bed and snagged his glasses, slipping them on. "Tell me what happened after you went to dinner."

"Not much." Jim moved restlessly. "Jeremy made me say grace again." Blair snickered and Jim flashed him a smile. "I had the lasagne, a salad, and three pieces of garlic bread. I'd just finished when suddenly I felt like I couldn't breathe... and then I was lying on the floor and you were telling me to take it easy and I could breathe again."

"Doesn't sound like anything there..." Blair was puzzled. "Who did you talk to?"

Jim thought for a moment. "Joseph and I talked about the Jags season... I think Frederick joined in. Then Theodore wanted to know about the plant life in Peru. After that..." His face went still and the muscle in his jaw jumped once. "Marcus came in and asked Jeremy if he could take you some dinner. Jeremy said that he'd already taken care of it. That's all, I think."

"And that's when you started feeling bad."

Jim nodded.

"Well..." Blair bit his lip, wondering exactly how to phrase his suspicions. "It could have been triggered by an emotional reaction."

Jim shot him a glance. "You mean by Marcus's appearance?"

"Maybe." Blair shrugged. "He's been the focus of a lot of emotional reactions the past two days."

"It's a possibility," Jim conceded.

"I think it's more than a possibility."

"Maybe." Jim closed his eyes, his face suddenly weary, and Blair changed the compress again, silently acceding to Jim's unspoken request to drop the subject. He brushed the back of his hand over Jim's cheek and frowned. His fever had not dropped - if anything, it was slightly higher.

Jim dozed, and Blair contented himself with watching over his partner, periodically changing the compress and checking the progress of Jim's increasing fever. Jim grew restless, shifting on the bed as if it had suddenly grown lumps, his arms and legs moving uneasily. Curbing his own sharpening panic, Blair soothed him with words and soft strokes, but that only worked temporarily, and Jim's agitation built until he was moaning in pain.

Without interrupting his touches, Blair thought furiously. Jim was burning up with fever - he could either ask for Jeremy's help to get Jim to the hospital, or he could try to do what Incacha could not. Blair shivered suddenly, remembering failure after failure - Jim turning pale when he stopped breathing, when his heart ceased to beat... Could he risk that, risk Jim's life, again? But did he have any other choice?

He didn't. The choice had been made the moment after the garbage truck had passed over them and Jim had said "Let's get outta here..." and he had followed.

So what should he do? Jim had told him to follow his instincts and not to think too much. Blair wiped Jim's fiery face while he tried to empty his mind, to call up the throbbing drone of the 'earth music' that Incacha had recognized. He rocked slightly, his body picking up the rhythm that pulsed through his veins as he pressed the damp cloth to Jim's face, throat and chest. The moisture gleamed briefly on Jim's ruddy flesh, quickly burned off by the heat that radiated from his body. Blair closed his eyes, fighting back the panic that urged him to do something, anything to help Jim. Not yet. It wasn't time yet.

He coaxed Jim over onto his side and gently wiped his back, the beat that filled him communicated to Jim through his touches, through the soft sounds that spilled from him with every breath, through the beat of his heart. He turned Jim onto his other side so that they were facing, and laid a hand on his chest, pleased that Jim had heard the rhythm and now carried it within him - in his heart and lungs and in the fingertips that blindly grazed Blair's arm and throat and face.

He captured the roving hand and brought it to his cheek for a moment, then tucked it snugly beneath the blankets. Blair felt the need to act increase, a fierce pressure growing behind his eyes, throbbing with the rhythm that had been established between them.

Blair moved the basin to the desk, his body still rocking, never losing the beat. Without pausing to think about what he was doing, he peeled off his tee-shirt and sweat pants, then crawled naked into the narrow bed with Jim. He slid his arm beneath Jim's head, cradling him to his shoulder, and slung his leg over Jim's waist. His other arm held Jim close. Jim burned, his body a brand searing Blair's skin. Blair held him, rocking slightly, until the rhythms of their separate bodies flowed into one pounding, overwhelming beat, two sounding as one, moving as one, responding as one.

"You must go deep within yourself, Jim," he whispered, and tightened his hold on his partner. "Find the still center and search for the heat... Find it and let it go... The rhythm will anchor you - you won't get lost this time. I have you, and I'll keep the rhythm going. Just listen to it as you breathe, feel it pound through your blood, and come back to me. I'll be here, waiting for you..."

Jim closed his eyes and Blair watched closely as he dropped into himself. There were no obvious outward signs of Jim's journey, but Blair shivered at the sudden sense of attenuation, of being emotionally wrenched apart that made his arms tighten around Jim's still body. He would not let go - he was Jim's anchor, Jim relied on him, and he would not let him down. So he waited, desperately maintaining the rhythm between them, aware of every minute change in Jim's expression, in every tiny shift in the beat that pounded through them, that surrounded them and connected them and joined them into one.

Blair had lost track of time. Only the rhythm existed, only the beat that shaped their lives remained. His body ached from holding Jim, his fingers were numb, but he rocked with the beat, never ceasing. Images - strange, otherworldly images - flitted through his mind, faint and elusive, and he knew he was seeing dim reflections of what Jim was experiencing.

Jim suddenly stilled and his breath became ragged, dropping out of the rhythm.

"No." Blair stroked Jim's face in time with the beat. "Jim, listen to the rhythm, hold on to it. I'm right here, waiting for you to come back." He rocked more insistently, moving Jim's heavy body with him, tendrils of panic sliding up his spine and along his ribs. "C'mon back, Jim. I need you, man. I really, really need you... especially now. Please, Jim... I can't go on without you." He squeezed his eyes closed, willing himself to breathe in rhythm, not to choke, not to gasp with pain. "Jim..."

The head in his arms stirred, rubbing gently against him like a cat. Jim shivered, and Blair could see the moisture beading on his forehead and upper lip, a single drop trickling down his temple. Their chests rubbed together, tacky with sudden sweat, and the soft inside of his thigh dragged over Jim's damp hip. Blair had never felt anything so wonderful. Jim's fever had broken. Jim was back and his fever had broken... Sighing in relief, Blair allowed himself to stroke the rumpled hair once, his hand shaking only a little, then leaned close.

"Thank you for not leaving me..." he whispered, brushing his cheek on Jim's damp forehead.

He moved to Jim's right side, repeating his actions. "Thank you for staying with me."

Blair pulled back a little, searching Jim's sweat-sheened face, his eyes traveling over the smooth forehead, along the high cheekbones, down the strong jaw. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, but he knew he would recognize it when he saw it - and he saw it in Jim's face, in the hungry eyes, in the parted lips. Ah, dear god...

His fingers caressed Jim's temples and his partner tilted his head up, a plea and an invitation. Blair slowly lowered his head and closed his eyes, shuddering with the power of the current that surged between them as he touched Jim's damp skin, forehead to forehead.

"You are mine..." His breath slipped between the waiting lips and he felt Jim's flesh jump beneath his fingers, "and I am yours. Shaman and Sentinel. Two halves of the same soul."

Two hands slid over his and pressed them tightly against Jim's temples. "I am yours, and you are mine," Jim whispered, "Sentinel and Shaman. Two halves of the same soul."

With a deep sigh, Jim released his hands and relaxed against him, arms clasped loosely around Blair. Blair shifted slightly, fingers idly brushing over Jim's cooling skin, mapping the shapes and textures they discovered. At this moment, it was not arousing to be naked, pressed tightly against Jim's sculpted body, but Blair suddenly understood how it could be, at another time, under other circumstances. The thought was unexpected, but not unwelcome, and he shelved it for further consideration at a later date. Now was not the time. They drifted contentedly for a while, cherishing the quiet calm that surrounded and filled them.

Blair traced the sharp contours of Jim's temple, cheek and jaw with a gentle touch. "You did it, you figured it out. You went deep and returned on your own."

Jim's eyes met his, and Blair could see exhaustion warring with quiet satisfaction in those shining blue depths. "We figured it out, Chief," Jim corrected mildly. "You provided the anchor; otherwise, I'd have never found my way back." He glanced down their bodies, eyes widening as he took in Blair's state of undress, and his own boxers rucked low on his hips. A faint blush crept up his cheeks and down his throat, but he did not pull away or show any other outward sign of discomfort. "Was that what did it? Skin on skin?"

Blair shrugged, and felt his own face grow warm at Jim's steady regard. "I don't know, exactly. That's what I felt I should do - what seemed right." His mouth was suddenly dry, but he continued as casually as he could. "I tried not to think about it, like you said. But talk about weird messages from my subconscious - I guess my shrink would have a field day with this."

Chuckling, Jim brushed a few errant strands of hair out of Blair's face. His fingers found and traced the curve of Blair's ear, pausing to briefly play with the earrings that interrupted the smooth flesh.

"Maybe you shouldn't tell him about it, then."

"Good idea." Blair snickered. "I can see me explaining that I helped treat my partner's allergies by getting naked in bed with him. That would make his year, man!"

"I'll bet." Jim's smile faded slowly, his expression turning remote. Blair watched, his heart sinking as he recognized the other man's way of distancing himself, and reluctantly began to unwrap himself from around Jim. It had been nice while it lasted...

"Where're you going, Chief?" Jim frowned. "Am I squashing you?"

"No. I just thought you'd like to move, y'know."

"I'd like..." Jim's voice trailed off as he looked at Blair. The younger man's gut lurched at Jim's expression - a mixture of pride, tenderness, and amusement that softened the cool purity of his features. Then he smiled ruefully. "I'd like to stay here all night, but I've really gotta get to the bathroom before I embarrass myself."

"Oh. Yeah. Right. Lemme get up." Blair untangled himself and scooted off the bed. Quickly pulling on his sweatpants, he kept a wary eye open as Jim slowly sat up, his feet hanging over the edge of the bed like a child, and rubbed his face with a shaky hand. "Just a sec, Jim."

Ignoring him, Jim lifted himself off the bed, blenched, and sat back down with a thud.

"I told you to wait, man." Blair muttered as he yanked on his tee-shirt. "Put this on first." He helped Jim shrug on his robe, then, grabbing his hand, hauled Jim up off the bed. Jim swayed, the motion stilled by Blair's hand on his shoulder. "Hang on. Let's get you belted up before you startle the brothers..." Pulling Jim's robe tightly over his chest, Blair carefully tied the belt, patting Jim's stomach gently before slipping his hand around Jim's waist. Jim draped his arm over Blair's shoulders and they made their shambling, noisy way down the hall.

"Blair?" Brother Michael's bespectacled face peered around a door. "How's..."

"Oh, hey, Brother Michael. Would you tell Brother Jeremy that Jim's doing a lot better?" Blair opened the door to the bathroom. "C'mon, Jim..."

After Jim had relieved himself, he washed his hands and leaned against the tile wall, his face almost as pale as the porcelain.

"You want to wait a little before we go back?" Blair ran his hand up Jim's arm, resting it on his shoulder.

"What I really want is a shower, Chief. I stink." Jim's nose wrinkled and he grimaced. "I'm surprised you can stand it."

"Oh, yeah. I'm really grossed out by your sweat. One of these days I'll tell you about the time I had to wear dried mud for a week as a tribal initiation." Blair rolled his eyes and was rewarded with a chuckle. "I'm not sure a shower's a good idea, but I could run you a bath."

"Sandburg, I'd give a six months supply of beer for a bath right now."

Blair went to the alcove where the old-fashioned claw-footed tub sat in state and turned on the taps. "I'm holding you to that promise, you know. Now, I'm going to get your towel. Wait here and don't try to get in on your own." Shooting Jim a warning look, he dashed back to their cell and snatched up both towels. Returning within a minute, he was pleased to see that Jim had listened and had stayed where he had left him.

He got Jim stripped and settled into the hot water, then jumped into the shower for a quick wash. By the time he had dried off and dressed, Jim was dozing, and to save time, Blair ended up giving Jim a cursory scrub. Getting him out of the tub proved more difficult than getting him in, and the floor was liberally puddled before Jim was dry and wrapped back in his robe. Ignoring the mess, Blair half-carried a sleepy Jim back to their room.

It wasn't until he had gotten Jim's robe off him that he realized Jim's bed was a mess - sheets soaked with sweat and wadded into lumps. Okay, so Jim would sleep in his bed, and he'd sleep in Jim's, after he found some clean sheets at... Blair glanced at the clock ...two in the morning.

He spared a moment to consider how tired he was, and then pulled back the blankets, steering Jim between the crisp sheets. Jim hit the mattress with a groan, rolling onto his side, back to the wall.

"Goodnight, Jim," he murmured, turning to strip the other bed. The bare mattress looked good right now, and he decided that he didn't really need sheets.

"Chief..."

"Yeah?"

"Come to bed."

Blair turned and stared. Jim's arm was raised, tenting the blanket and creating an inviting space beside him. His eyes were closed, and lines of exhaustion were deeply etched in his flesh.

"You sure, man?"

Jim's eyes fluttered open for a moment and he raised his arm higher.

"I'm sure."

Abandoning the other bed, Blair quickly crawled in, scooting over until he was as far away from Jim as he could get. Jim grunted, and his arm flopped over Blair. He pulled Blair back and squirmed until they were fitted tightly against each other, back to chest. His breathing evened out in sleep, sending gentle puffs through Blair's hair.

It took a while for Blair to relax - he was comfortable, very comfortable in fact, but his brain kept returning to the thought of a naked, pliant Jim holding him close in sleep. There was some arousal, which was to be expected, he supposed, but it was more than that. Touching Jim, being held tightly, felt right, not just on the surface, but on a fundamental level, and he spent some time puzzling out the strangeness. And as if that weren't enough, there was Jim himself, the strangest thing of all - it was as if he were encouraging Blair to feel this way, as if Jim had already started a journey and was waiting for him to catch up so they could continue together. But before he could figure out the answer, he fell asleep wrapped tightly in Jim's embrace.

***

"Mmmph."

Blair rolled onto his stomach; the warm blanket of muscle and bone that had surrounded him during the night was gone. He shivered and raised his head, prying open one eye.

"Jim?"

Jim was standing by the window, almost completely dressed. He tucked his shirt into his pants and tightened his belt before he turned to Blair.

"I'm going to church."

"Huh?"

Pausing as he slipped on his shoes, Jim didn't meet Blair's eyes as he repeated his words. "I'm going to church."

"Jus' a sec, Jim."

"See you at breakfast."

He walked out the door.

Blair tumbled from the bed, staring blankly at the closed door. Jim was going to church. After almost dying in the middle of the night, his partner was up early, going to church. It made a kind of sense, he supposed, for some people to give thanks to God for being delivered from death, but Jim had never done that before. It was not Jim's way. Then what...

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit, shit...

He threw on his clothes in record time, cursing the instincts that he had so blindly followed.

Jim was freaked by last night. Well, of course he would be. Imagine being lost within yourself, struggling to return, only to find when you did get back that your shaman, your male shaman, was naked, in your bed, and holding you in his arms. Rubbing himself against you. Blair winced, remembering how good it had felt, how right it had seemed to hold Jim so. But obviously not to Jim. He had been too exhausted to think clearly last night, or he would have freaked then.

Blair could imagine Jim's shock when he woke this morning, naked in Blair's bed, with his partner pressed tightly against him. He was surprised that Jim hadn't just tossed him out of bed, still asleep.

But their sleeping together had been Jim's idea. Blair snatched at the thought, suddenly buoyed by hope, until he remembered how dead tired Jim had been. Poor guy hadn't been thinking straight. He'd probably been a bit scared still, and needed the human companionship, even in sleep.

Yep. That's what happened.

Blair shivered at the sudden chill that did not come from the air around him.

After a quick wash, he paused outside the chapel doors, fingering his courage like a prayer shawl, and slipped inside. Jim was sitting on the left, about two-thirds of the way down the nave. He did not turn or acknowledge Blair's presence, but he shifted slightly in the pew, as if he were suddenly uncomfortable. Sliding into a seat on the right, two rows behind Jim, Blair looked around briefly. The monks were sitting in the chancel, and both Jeremy and Marcus caught his eye before he returned his gaze to Jim.

His gaze did not waver for the next hour. Jim moved a little periodically, as if he wished to reassure Blair that he hadn't zoned, but he never turned his head to face him.

Blair was so caught up in observing Jim that the recessional took him by surprise. Jim followed the monks down the aisle, never looking back. Blair ran to catch up.

"Jim, are you okay?" he murmured as they made their way to the refectory.

"I'm fine, Sandburg."

Jim's voice was calm and quiet, echoing his expression. But... Blair shot him a glance. But whatever it was that had prompted Jim to attend church, it had not been resolved during the service. Jim was as tightly coiled as a watch spring, holding himself still not because he was at peace, but because the turmoil within him was too great to find outward expression.

They ate breakfast silently, and as soon as it was decently possible, Jim excused himself.

"I'm going to take a walk, Chief," he said quietly to Blair. "Alone," he continued, before Blair could interrupt. "You need to spend some time with Marcus - talk to him, work with him. It'll help."

And for the second time that day, Blair watched as Jim strode out of the room, leaving him behind.

***

Blair wandered over to the workshop, reluctant to encounter Marcus, but mindful of Jim's advice. If Jim didn't need him, then he should get to know his... His mind balked at the word, but he forced it out. Father. His father.

Where the hell was Jim when he needed him...

Blair shook his head. That wasn't fair. Jim was trying to help. It wasn't his fault that Blair really didn't want to do this. He walked into the dim room and, out of habit, looked over at the table.

Damn and double damn.

He must've knocked it harder than he thought yesterday. Blair stared forlornly at the scattered pieces of glass. The pattern was still faintly discernible, but it was twisted, bent, contorted into something almost unpleasant. Without thinking, he began to move the pieces back onto the outlines penciled on the paper, and quickly became absorbed in his task.

"Blair..."

His hand jerked, knocking several pieces out of alignment again.

"Marcus! You startled me."

"Sorry." Marcus walked over and stood beside him, eyes on the table. "It's going to be beautiful when it's finished."

Blair nodded, still staring at the sparkling wash of glass before them.

"Jim told me I should talk to you. But I don't know what to say."

"I seem to have the same problem." Marcus chuckled. "Strange, isn't it?"

"Yeah." Blair flashed him a smile. There was a hint of connection, of ease. Not much, but it was a start. "Jim says I'm never at a loss for words. He wouldn't believe this."

"Neither would Jeremy. He's always amazed when I successfully finish a period of silence, and then complains that I don't shut up for a week afterward."

"Well, I don't think I'd manage to stay silent in the first place, so you're ahead of me there."

Blair's hands were busy shifting pieces of glass back to their proper places, but his eyes strayed to the man beside him. Marcus reached out and picked up a piece of glass, rubbing it absently between his fingers.

"Blair." Marcus raised the glass to the light and a blue so clear and bright that it reminded Blair of Jim's eyes spilled across his face. "I'm not sure how to ask... but I need to know something about you and Jim..."

Blair froze for a moment, bent over the table and stretching for another piece. He watched his fingers quiver before he straightened and shoved both hands into his pockets.

"What about me and Jim?" His voice was harsh.

Marcus dropped the glass, then raised his eyebrows and his hands. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize that it would bother you to talk about it."

"No." Blair shook his head. "It doesn't bother me, but it's kinda hard to explain... I mean, Jim's a good friend, probably my best friend, and he's helped me out with everything from giving me a place to live to allowing me to study him for my disserta-" His mouth snapped shut and he frowned. "Dammit..."

"Maybe it would help if I explained why I asked-"

"Marcus! Blair!" Jeremy ran into the workshop, a couple of rolled up blankets tucked under his arm. "Hurry! It's Jim..."

Blair sprinted toward the door. "Where is he?" he called over his shoulder.

"Wait! He's not in the building."

Startled, Blair dashed back to Jeremy and grabbed his arm. "Where is he? Tell me!"

Jeremy darted a glance at Marcus, who nodded faintly. "He's in the fields, out past the orchard."

"Then, how..." Blair blinked, looking from Jeremy to Marcus and back. "How do you know he's in trouble?"

Jeremy paled and licked his lips nervously. "I can hear him," he whispered.

"You can-" Blair took a deep breath and wiped a hand over his face. "Oh, God, you're a Sentinel, too." He nodded sharply, a multitude of tiny clues and hints suddenly making sense, then grabbed the blankets from Jeremy. "Find him."

With one last unreadable look at Marcus, Jeremy tucked his robe up to his knees and took off across the yard. Blair followed close behind, hugging the blankets tightly, with Marcus bringing up the rear.

They made their way through the orchard, Jeremy pausing occasionally to cock his head and listen, or to scan the area, eyes narrowed. Blair watched him closely, the academic part of him unconsciously cataloging similarities and differences between Jeremy's methods and Jim's. The conscious part of his mind simply repeated 'Hang on, Jim,' over and over, a mental jitter that mirrored the restless movements of his body.

It was taking too long. Jeremy rested against an apple tree, panting, his head swiveling like a radar dish.

"C'mon, man..." muttered Blair, pacing between the rows of bare trees. "Ease into it, sort through the sounds until you can pick him out." He stopped, startled, as Marcus puffed up to him, shaking his head vigorously.

Marcus laid a finger to his lips, silencing Blair, then walked slowly up to Jeremy and rested a hand on his shoulder. Jeremy reached up and laid his hand on top of Marcus's, then bowed his head.

Blair waited, watching the two men. He could feel the bond shimmering between them - something bright and strong and almost painful in its intensity. It was fascinating, and he briefly wondered if that was what it looked like when he and Jim worked together. But that was something that could be investigated later - right now he had to find Jim.

Finally, Jeremy raised his head and turned to Blair, his face twisted in fear.

"Oh, dear God. We must hurry..."

"Is he breathing? Is his heart beating?" Blair choked out.

Jeremy paled and closed his eyes. "No."

"Find him, dammit!"

Jeremy set out at a shambling lope, half-supported by Marcus. They rounded a small stone outcropping and stopped abruptly, Blair almost plowing into them from behind.

Jim sat against the rocks, legs crossed, head lolling. His eyes were partially open, only the white visible, his mouth gaped loosely. His skin... Blair stifled a scream. Jim's skin was alabaster, with the thick translucency of fine wax. The skin of a dead person, the surging blood long stilled in the veins and arteries. Blair threw back his head and breathed deeply, the cold air sharp in his throat and lungs. He tenderly cradled a tiny spark of hope, holding it close to his heart. It provided no warmth - only a tiny gleam of light in the surrounding blackness.

Dumping the blankets, he dropped to his knees before Jim, gently straightening the chilled head before leaning close to his left temple and exhaling softly.

"Jim, remember, Shaman and Sentinel. It's time to come back to me."

He couldn't help the catch in his voice, or the way his hands shook. He moved to Jim's right, brushing his lips over the cold flesh of Jim's temple before sending a gentle stir of air across it.

"Two halves of the same soul, Jim. If you die, you'll take my soul with you."

The words were choked, half-unintelligible, but he knew that Jim would understand them, if he could hear them. If... He had no idea how deep Jim had gone, or why he had gone on his own, without Blair to anchor him. Without an anchor, Jim was lost inside himself, completely alone. Blair remembered the fear in Jim's voice when he spoke of being lost, and he swore he would not allow that to happen again. He would have to go after him.

Blair knew that this was his last step on familiar ground - beyond this was unexplored, uncharted territory. If he took this step, there would be no turning back, no shrugging off of responsibility. His commitment to Jim, both emotional and physical, would be final, irrevocable. Slowly, deliberately, he leaned his forehead on Jim's, their lips a whisper apart. He breathed into Jim's open mouth, a stream of warm, moist air, sending as much of himself with it as he could.

"Listen to my heartbeat, Jim. I'm coming..."

A little mental twist, and all was darkness. The transformation from sunlit meadow to impenetrable blackness was instantaneous and complete - there was no gradual process of dimming sky and encroaching night, of twilight. Blair froze, not from fear, although that specter lurked at the edges of his consciousness, but to give himself a moment to adjust to this strange and forbidding place. If he wasn't careful, he would find himself tumbling out of control, and then all would indeed be lost.

Senses didn't work here - there was no possibility of looking around, or listening to a sound, or touching something - but there was an awareness extending beyond himself, and his mind chose to interpret what it encountered through the comforting filters of sight, sound, and touch. Blair knew it was his mind's attempt to remain sane in this strange, disconcerting place.

Gradually he became aware of a dull throbbing noise in the background, its beat regular and compelling. His heartbeat. He sank into the rich golden sound, allowing it to drag him along with the slow, strong rhythm. It pushed him forward, and he moved with it willingly, dragging his hands through the warm, viscous stream.

Almost imperceptibly a new note was added, faint and tentative, playing catch-up with the leading bass beat. Blair could see it - a thin bright band of red that wound around the gold like a peppermint stripe. He reached forward and touched it with the tip of one finger. It reacted immediately, coiling and snaking around him, entwining around his legs and hands, as if seeking to get as close to him as possible. Blair squirmed against it, rubbed his hands through it, welcoming the heat that poured from the ribbon. It grew quickly, thickening and strengthening until it was as powerful as the gold stream beside it. Blair remained between the two streams, one hand in each, a conduit joining red and gold.

The red stream surrounding his hand began to glow, lit by an inner fire until it resembled the gleaming intensity of ruby glass lit by the sun. Blair reached further into the redness, his fingers brushing something small and hot, which pulsed frantically. He grabbed it and dragged it to the surface, holding it gently in his cupped hand.

It was what he sought. He breathed a sigh of relief that it was safe and whole, and cradled it tenderly against his chest as it calmed. It nestled against him, quiescent and trusting, as he waded through the streams, rising, buoyed by the knowledge that his journey was successful.

As abruptly as he had entered the darkness, he left it. Blair blinked and stared into Jim's pale eyes, pleased to see recognition dawning there. Jim closed his eyes and leaned heavily on Blair, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

Blair's hands slid down to Jim's shoulders and he pulled him close, stroking the quivering muscles gently. He watched, enthralled, as the tip of one cold ear pinkened, life flowing back into the ivory tissue.

"It's okay, Jim... I've got you. I'm not going to let you go, ever..."

"Blair?" Jeremy's voice was quiet but insistent. "We've spread out a blanket for Jim to rest on."

"Thanks." With firm, gentle pressure, Blair coaxed Jim onto his knees and guided him to the blanket. As the quivering turned to shaking, Jim collapsed, curling up on his side, his hands clutching his stomach, face grimacing in pain.

Without sparing a thought for what the other men might think, Blair lay down beside Jim and tightly wrapped his arms and legs around his partner. He shook with the force of the tremors that rattled through Jim, but held on tenaciously until they quieted to an almost imperceptible shivering.

"You found me, Chief." The words were breathed, more than spoken.

"Always, Jim. Always."

"Sorry. Happened fast. Hurt so bad. Thought I could do it on my own."

"Hush. You can explain why the hell you'd do such a stupid thing later, when I have enough strength to get really pissed off."

A small rumble, which might have been a chuckle, leaked from Jim's chest, and his fingers clutched at Blair's back, pulling him closer.

"Gotta go back," he murmured.

"Yeah, I know."

"No!" Jeremy's voice boomed unexpectedly in the stillness, making Jim flinch. "His heart stopped! He almost died, you both almost died! You can't do this... this... connecting again!"

Blair turned a fraction, his eyes seeking Marcus. The monk knelt beside him, silently attentive, worry twisting his face.

"I have to," said Blair, automatically calming Jim with strokes and caresses. "He's badly hurt, and only he can fix it." He lifted his chin and narrowed his eyes. "I have to go with him. I'm his anchor."

"You discovered what was wrong with him while you were... connected?" Awe tinged Marcus's voice.

Blair nodded.

"The only way to correct it is to do this?"

"Yes."

Marcus closed his eyes briefly, then frowned like a child holding back tears. "Promise me one thing, Blair. Promise me that you will both return." He stroked Blair's head once. "Please."

A ghostly hand wrapped itself around Blair's heart and squeezed painfully. "I promise," he whispered.

"All right. Can you do it lying down like this?" At Blair's nod, he grabbed the other blanket and spread it over them, tucking it close. "What else can we do?"

"Nothing. Just wait."

Blair closed his eyes and began to rock slightly, rediscovering the rhythm that bound them together. Jim quickly picked up the beat, moving smoothly in Blair's arms. The rhythm grew gradually, swelling into great cresting waves that rolled over and over them. Blair knew that their bodies were hardly moving, but their souls...

"I have you now, Jim. I'll keep you safe. Go quickly, so that you can come back to me."

Jim smiled at him fondly, then closed his eyes as Blair continued his gentle litany, leading him deeper and deeper within himself.

"Find the still center and ground yourself. When you're ready, when you feel comfortable, reach out and find the problem..."

Jim suddenly shuddered against him, breaking the rhythm, then stilled.

"Jim?" Blair froze. There was no beat, no rhythm. The connection between them was severed. "Nonononono..." he breathed, appalled. He couldn't understand it. They had established the beat - it had been powerful, echoing between them, resonating off bone and muscle and flesh.

Flesh.

He didn't pause to think or assess as the word entered his mind. He knew what was wrong, and the only thing he could do to restore their connection.

"Jeremy," he ground out between clenched teeth, "hold Jim."

As soon as the older man placed his hands on Jim's back, Blair untangled himself and rolled away, fingers fumbling with his jacket buttons.

"What are you doing?" Jeremy hissed.

"Jim can't sense enough through all these clothes to keep the connection going. He needs to feel me." Blair jerked off his coat and started peeling off shirts, heedless of the cold. "Keep holding him," he snapped, as Jeremy began to rise. "Don't leave him alone!" Jeremy sank back onto his knees, his hands tightening on Jim's arm and shoulder. He bowed his head, cloaking himself in stillness.

Turning to Marcus as he toed off his boots and shucked his jeans, Blair shivered, goosebumps marching up his arms and down his back. "Can you help me undress him?"

Marcus nodded and began to ease Jim out of his jacket. Blair knelt beside him and they had Jim stripped, save socks and boxers, in short order. With a nod to Jeremy, Blair re-wrapped himself around Jim, hugging him close, rubbing his chilled skin. Wordlessly, Jeremy covered them with the blanket. Marcus added their coats on top and folded shirts and jeans into small pillows, easing them beneath their heads.

Pausing for a moment to find the rhythm again, Blair began to rock in time. Jim quickly responded and sank deeply into silence, and, as he had done so many times before, Blair followed.

Darkness, again. But not complete darkness this time. The small, pulsing orb hovering beside him shed a dim light - it was not much, but it comforted him greatly. He reached out and cupped his fingers around it, stroking it gently. It nestled into his hand, and he brought it up to his chest, where it brightened, throbbed rapidly, and sank into him - straight into his heart.

Pride. Joy. Trust. Love. The emotions were so strong he wondered if he could contain them, or if they would simply split him open, like a chrysalis. He suddenly became aware of his