In ten minutes, Jim was back in the living room, teeth brushed, clothes changed, ready to go. The loft finally seemed warmer to him--all it had taken was turning up the heat and putting on about three layers of clothing. He grabbed his jacket and called for Blair to get a move on.

There was no answer. Immediately, Jim's pulse accelerated. He told himself not to assume the worst. Sandburg never could dress quickly--probably had something to do with having all that hair.

He called again. Still nothing.

What's wrong with me? he wondered. I'm standing here, heart pounding, palms sweating, all because Sandburg's taking his usual leisurely time deciding which of his equally ratty flannel shirts to wear.

He snorted in disgust.

But his heart kept pounding, his palms kept sweating, and he was picturing a damn dial in his head, trying to turn up his hearing.

Something wasn't right.

Dropping his jacket, and the whole notion of not assuming the worst, Jim headed for Blair's room on the run.

The curtains on the inside of the French doors obscured his view. Not bothering to knock, he pushed the doors open.

Blair stood motionless near his dresser. His face wore the by now too-familiar expression of a zone-out. He'd pulled his hair back into a ponytail and gotten his pants and shoes on, but was shirtless. He stood holding his shirt.

No, not *his* shirt. The light green flannel Blair had in his hands was actually Jim's.

"Damn, damn, damn."

Jim's comment was less a curse than a way to vent the unaccustomed feeling of helplessness that washed over him.

He rubbed a hand over his face. "Chief, how do you handle this stuff?" he asked softly. "I feel like I'm playing the game as hard as I can but some joker keeps inventing new rules."

There was no answer, of course, since the guide he'd so recently realized he couldn't live without was not functioning as such. Wasn't functioning at all right now.

As before, Jim reached out, establishing physical contact by taking hold of Blair's arm. The right one this time, and gently; no need to give him matching bruises. Then he talked to his partner as calmly as he could.

Soon, Blair was back, blinking in confusion. "Again?" he said. "I did it *again*?"

"Unfortunately. Was it my shirt?" Jim indicated the green flannel in Blair's hand.

"No, not exactly. I was looking in my drawer for a shirt to wear and something about this one--" He shrugged, adding, "I knew it was yours, but there was something about it that made me want to wear it. I pulled it out and that's when I saw the shirt under it." Careful not to look down at it, he gestured at a black-and-red plaid shirt that still lay in the drawer. "I mean, I just *glanced* at it, and suddenly....well, I was stuck. It didn't feel like I was standing here at all. It's like I was *inside* the pattern. And I couldn't get out."

Blair's eyes strayed toward the drawer, and Jim pushed it shut.

Moving away from the dresser, Blair said wonderingly, "Unbelievable, man. Just digging through my shirts, wondering how yours ended up in my drawer, and all of a sudden I'm gone. Completely gone. Deader'n a door nail. If you hadn't been here--" His voice trailed off and a shadow seemed to pass over his face.

"I know it's easy to get lost, Chief, but I'm here. I'll haul you back," Jim reassured him. Tapping him on the shoulder, the detective added, "Hey, just be glad there's no paisley in that drawer. Now, *there's* a bad trip." He gave an exaggerated shudder.

A snort of laughter erased the worry from Blair's face. He started to put on the green flannel shirt.

"Hey, wait a minute. I thought you hated that shirt," Jim teased. "Told me, as I recall, that it was the color of split pea soup. And you--"

"Hate split pea soup," Blair finished. "I know. I know. But if it's all the same to you, I think I'll wear it. Makes me...feel better." He was rubbing his fingers lightly along the front of the shirt. He caught Jim's bemused expression and his face flushed with embarrassment. "Sorry, man. I'll take it off. Don't know what I was thinking--"

"Feels like home," Jim blurted, and it was his turn to be faintly embarrassed. He added quickly, "Wear the shirt, Sandburg. It's no big deal."

"Feels like home?" Blair repeated curiously, halting his friend's escape to the living room. The younger man's expectant expression elicited a sigh from Jim.

"Yes," he admitted. "I've noticed it once or twice, when I've come across your laundry mixed in with mine."

"Wouldn't want to try it with dirty socks," Blair joked absently, but Jim could tell he was storing up this new bit of information. "We should try an experiment with--um, yeah, I know. Not the point just now."

He buttoned the shirt and started to roll the left sleeve up. Noticing the darkening bruise on his forearm, he rolled the sleeve back down and glanced quickly at Jim.

The detective grimaced at the injury and opened his mouth to apologize once again.

"Don't," Blair said simply, reading the guilt on his friend's face.

So Jim didn't. Instead, he said, "Take your jacket, Sandburg."

"Are you kidding? I'm putting out enough heat for this whole building," Blair insisted. "No wonder you keep this place so cold."

"Take the jacket. You're warm now. But you don't have any experience regulating your sensitivity to temperatures."

Blair gave him an odd look. "And you do. I mean, that's something you have to think about, isn't it?"

"Not really." Jim considered it for a few seconds and said, "At least, not so much any more. I guess I just do it unconsciously now."

Blair regarded him silently. Then, shaking his head, he said, "Man, the things I don't know about you would fill a book."

"Or at least a dissertation," the detective joked.

"Well, let's *hope* so," Blair said with mock fervor, and snagged his jacket on their way out.

* * * * *

"So come on, tell me your dream," Blair urged, once they were in Jim's truck and headed for police headquarters.

Jim stopped for a red light. "Is that really necessary? It seems pretty obvious what's happened."

"Of course, it's necessary! I'm dying to hear it all--especially Incacha's words--exactly as you remember it. *Do* you remember it?" A quick nod. "Well, then, spill it. The suspense is killing me."

The light changed to green and Jim pressed the accelerator, swinging the wheel right to make the turn. "Does it have to be now, Sandburg?"

Blair snapped over to the left, leaning quickly away from the passenger side door. "Whoa, Jim, easy does it. Nearly mowed down that pedestrian. Never seen a guy on crutches move that fast before." He looked over at Jim's set face. "Yes, it has to be now. You need to get it out in the open. If Incacha was there, then it must've been a vision. Why am I having to explain this to you? You know it has to be important."

Jim did know. Part of him even understood that talking about the nightmare might help dispel it--but only a very small, very reluctant part.

"Talk to me, Jim," Blair urged, then snorted. "Man, I'm gonna have that inscribed on my headstone after I'm gone."

The truck swerved slightly, eliciting some frantic horn-blowing from the other drivers. The rain had stopped, but the pavement was still slick with water.

"Sandburg," Jim said calmly, "could you please try not to refer to death or dying for at least the next ten minutes?"

"Sorry." Blair grabbed the dash as Jim accelerated and turned the wheel quickly left to pass a slow-moving car. "But your driving is sort of inspirational right now--inspiring terror, that is. Would you *please* slow down? All this water on the road--Jim, the motorcycle! Man, I'm having heart failure here!"

Unexpectedly, Jim swung the wheel to the right, crossing in front of traffic to pull the truck into an empty parking lot. Blair hauled himself upright after measuring his length along the bench seat and glared at his partner. "Are you *trying* to kill us?" he demanded.

Jim stopped the truck in a squeal of abused tires. He turned off the engine.

"All right, Sandburg," he growled. "You want to talk? You want honesty? Let's start with you being honest with *me* for a change. Do you enjoy reminding me of what happened--of what could have happened that day at the fountain? Because, hey, I could understand that. I really could. You *should* be mad at me for what I did. You should want to kick my ass. But if you're angry, then I wish to hell you'd just say so. I wish you'd stop telling me everything's fine and dandy and we're letting it all go, and then keep coming out with these little jabs. Because the God's honest truth is, every time you make one of your so-called jokes about headstones or heart attacks, all I see is you laid out on the ground--" One finger stabbed hard into Blair's chest. "--dead."

The emotion, as well as the spate of words, stunned Blair. Quickly, he said, "No, Jim. You're wrong. I'm not--" The words cut off abruptly as Jim's eyes bored into his own.

Even through his own anger and hurt, the detective recognized the instant when forceful denial changed to utter confusion.

Blair rocked backward, as realization hit him. "Am I?" he murmured, almost too low to be heard.

He turned away to stare out the passenger side window. His hands, resting on his thighs, clenched into fists. Jim waited silently until Blair finally turned to face him again.

"That *is* what I'm doing," Blair said in a stunned whisper. "It actually is. I *am* still angry." A brief frown, then he exclaimed, "Well, of course I am! Jesus, Jim, you threw me out of the only home I had, told me I was pretty much worthless to you, and then went and boffed the bitch who'd killed me!"

As Blair's voice grew louder, Jim winced repeatedly, every word like a blow. He said nothing in his own defense. It was all painfully true.

Blair paused in a brief moment of wide-eyed silence, then said, "Ho-ly shit."

The softness of the words didn't diminish the astonishment they conveyed. Jim's head came up abruptly. His heart skipped a beat.

Blair's face wore an enormous smile. His eyes shone.

He looks like he just won the lottery, Jim thought, and found himself completely at a loss. What did I miss? Why was he smiling? Hadn't he just said he was angry?

Yes, he had. And that was something Jim understood.

Taking a deep breath, he launched into an apology, "Chief, you're right. I treated you like hell. I don't know--"

"No, no, no." Blair waved his hands, cutting Jim off in mid-explanation. "I mean, yes, I was angry, am angry. But I'm not mad at you. I recognize the anger now. I guess I've been--no, I *have* been denying it. All this time, I thought I was so mature, that I was cool with what happened, that I'd dealt with everything. I swear I thought it was all behind me. But it was still there, bottled up inside, and I was just finding ways--really cruel ways!--of telling you without really telling you."

When he finished, Blair inhaled loudly and fell back against the seat. His arms and legs flopped bonelessly. "Oh, man! Oh, man. And you saw it, when I completely didn't. How amazing is that?"

Jim couldn't take in the barrage of words. "Angry...but not mad," he said slowly.

Blair had begun to rummage in the glove compartment. "Hey, you got any paper on you?" he asked as he searched. "Scrap paper, envelope, anything? I can't believe I went out without my backpack. I need to write some things down. We've *got* talk about this, and I don't want to forget--"

If this was a cartoon, Jim thought, there'd be a huge question mark over my head right now. "So...you *are* angry?" he asked, latching on to the one thing he'd comprehended.

Abandoning his fruitless search, Blair leaned back again. "Yes, I'm angry! You treated me like shit, man. More than three years we're together--friends and partners, you said; Sentinel and Guide--and you toss it all in the toilet. Pack it up in boxes and tell me to please get it and myself the hell out of your life. Of course, I'm angry!"

Yet even as Blair was saying words that Jim knew should be accompanied by rage and recriminations--he was smiling. The little shit was sitting there completely relaxed and smiling at him! Once more, Jim had the feeling that the rules were being changed in the middle of play.

Slowly, with complete seriousness, Jim said, "Chief, in all our time together, if I have ever told you that I understood anything about you, I take it back right now."

His partner flashed him a surprised look, then leaned his head back and laughed.

*We should go home.*

That thought appeared so clearly in Jim's mind he wondered for an instant if he'd said it aloud. Obviously not--Blair gave no sign of having heard it, was in fact still lying back against the seat and laughing. Jim found he had an almost overwhelming urge to go back to the loft and lock Blair inside until this whole bizarre business was over. How else was he supposed to keep all that energy and lightning-fast, incomprehensible brain safe?

Ridiculous of course. For one thing, his partner would never go along with the idea. For another, no place was guaranteed safe.

So, Jim grinned--how could a person not grin when Sandburg laughed like that?--and fought down the impulse to incarcerate Blair for his own good. He realized they'd better get a move on. Simon was probably angry as hell by now.

Angry *and* mad.

Jim turned the key and cranked the engine.

Blair reached over and switched it off, saying one word: "Dream."

The detective rested his forehead on the steering wheel, murmuring, "I knew it was too good to be true. Are you sure I need to--"

"Man, we're supposed to be talking about you but we always keep coming back to me. Like the old anthro joke. Eminent anthropologist spends six really intense months doing fieldwork--talking twelve-fourteen hours a day seven days a week to every member of the tribe. Then, on his very last day in the field, he closes his little notebook, puts down his little pencil, and says, 'But, that's enough about me; now let's talk about you people.'"

It got a laugh from Jim, though he also looked confused. Blair waved a dismissive hand, saying breezily, "Okay, so it's not exactly applicable; you know how few good anthro jokes there are? Well, aside from the ones teaching at Rainier. The point is, no more talk about me and my anger--at least not now. Time for your dream."

He crossed his arms over his chest and looked at Jim, eyebrows lifted.

Jim took a deep breath and said, "Incacha told me that--"

"Stop."

"Damn it, Sandburg! Now what?"

"From the beginning, man. You need to tell me all of it. And just as importantly, you need to tell *yourself* all of it."

"All of it," Jim repeated. "Chief, it's hard. I mean, in this dream I'm...well, I'm drowning."

"What?" Blair sat up straighter, the last vestiges of his earlier laughter completely gone now.

Jim looked at his hands, gripping the steering wheel. When he spoke, he kept his gaze fastened there. "In the dream, I died--just like I always do--drowning. I think I'm in the ocean. The water is cold, and I'm trying to yell for help, but I can't make a sound. I can't do anything but die. I wake up sweating, and that's usually the end of it."

"Just like you always do?" Blair repeated. "Uh, Jim, how many times have you had this dream?"

The detective looked out the window on his side of the truck. He rolled it down a few inches to let in fresh air.

"Every night?" Blair persisted. "Every other night? How often?"

"No, not every night. Only once or twice....okay, more like four or five times a week since that day--the day you *didn't* die."

"You should've told me."

Jim's snort of disgust was directed at his own perceived weakness. "Why? You gonna tuck me in at night? It's just a stupid dream."

"Jim, dreams are powerful things. Even if it wasn't a vision, it's still your unconscious mind's way of trying to work out the problems in your waking life."

Jim continued to stare out the window, keeping his face averted. Blair sighed. "Okay, okay. Tell the rest of it."

Quickly, to get it over with, Jim said, "This time was different. After I drowned, I was suddenly standing in sunlight. I was...on campus near Hargrove. I was--hell, I was standing next to that damn fountain. There was nobody around and it was completely silent--no animals or people, no noises at all. It was--" He finally turned and looked at Blair. "It was scary as hell--maybe worse than the drowning. I was alone in this total silence and I couldn't speak, couldn't make a sound. Then Incacha appeared and I was...relieved...because I wasn't alone any more. I still couldn't speak. But he did. He said--" Jim closed his eyes, conjuring up the words in his head. "'You will have to learn. You value now, but still you don't understand. It will be difficult, but you both must learn to see through other eyes.' Then he stepped into the fountain and said, 'With your strength, he can face his fear. With his, you will conquer your own. In time.' Then he disappeared under the water."

"And--" Blair had to clear his throat and start again. "And then you woke up."

Jim shook his head. "After Incacha disappeared," he explained, "I heard a noise, like an animal running. I couldn't see anything at first, but then something came around a tall hedge, running straight at me. I tried to get out of the way, but I couldn't move. It just came right at me. It was a wolf."

"A wolf," Blair murmured, then his carefully controlled expression cracked, allowing sudden astonishment to show through. "Oh, man, and I saw a jaguar!"

"Yeah, a wolf, just like the one--" Jim stopped abruptly and stared at his partner. "What did you say? When did you see a jaguar?"

Though Blair's eyes were fastened on him, Jim had the feeling his friend was actually seeing something completely different, something inside his own head.

That unfocused stare went on for so long that Jim put a hand on Blair's shoulder and asked, only half-joking, "Hey, Chief? You haven't zoned on me, have you?"

"No, I'm still here," Blair said. "I need to tell you about the jaguar, but finish your dream first. The wolf was coming at you."

"That's about it. The wolf jumped for me. I woke up and realized the hypersenses were kaput. Now, what's this about a jaguar?"

"Well, you know I told you I had a weird dream last night, too--dreamed I heard some kind of thumping noise in the loft. Just before I heard it, I saw a black jaguar. All I remember is that it was jumping for my throat. It startled me so much that I woke up--okay, I *dreamed* that I woke up. Then I heard that weird thumping noise and--"

"Wait, Chief," Jim interrupted. "That noise wasn't a dream. When I woke up after the wolf attacked me, you were in my room. You'd heard my heart pounding during the nightmare and you came upstairs, tracked the noise to the source."

"You're kidding me."

"You were worried. Kept telling me the noise was 'too fast' and 'not right.' I told you you were dreaming so you'd go back to bed."

Blair turned to stare out the windshield.

Jim watched the traffic for a few minutes, allowing them both time to process. Didn't take a Ph.D. to figure out the significance of the jaguar and wolf images--exchanging animal spirits, exchanging abilities. But the rest of it--

"Jim," Blair said slowly, "about the rest of it...."

"Yeah, I don't really understand that either."

But Blair didn't look confused, was in fact nodding. He repeated Incacha's words, "With your strength, he can face his fear." And continued to nod thoughtfully.

"Sandburg?" Jim said. No response. Jim waved a hand in front of his friend's face. "Hey, Motor Mouth, don't go inscrutable on me now. Let me in on the revelation."

"It's just....I think I understand what Incacha meant. At least that part of it." He stopped and once more studied the traffic.

Jim sighed. "And? So?" he prompted impatiently.

Blair shrugged. "And so, we should get to the station. Simon'll think we di--um, Simon'll wonder what happened to us."

"First, tell me what you figured out, about...your fear."

Shifting in the seat, Blair replied, "Not just yet. I need to think about it for a little while." He flicked a glance up at his friend's face. "But, um, speaking of fear--back home, when I zoned on that plaid shirt, I gotta tell you that was a hell of an eye-opener. I mean, I've seen you do that, like, a million times and I knew you were gone, but I never realized you were *that* gone. And it was so unexpected! I'm just standing there trying to figure out why I have this overwhelming urge to wear your mangy pea-green shirt--" Jim's indignant "Hey!" made him smile briefly. "--then I see that red-and-black plaid, and it just....man, I don't even know how to describe what happened." Blair shrugged helplessly.

"It reached out, grabbed your eyes, and the rest of you fell in after them."

At first startled by Jim's words, Blair quickly nodded. "Exactly! That's it exactly! It was like the pattern or the colors or something caught my eyes and I couldn't look away, couldn't keep the rest of me from going in, too."

"Scary's the word for it, Chief."

"Yeah, but the truth is, after you brought me back, I felt so guilty."

Jim blinked. "Wait, you lost me there."

"Jim, if you hadn't brought me back, I'd've stood there forever--a living, breathing statue, completely unable to get back into my own head. Once I got back, I started thinking about you throwing me out of the loft just before Alex--" Jim sighed, and Blair said quickly, "No, I mean I remembered how I didn't put up much of a fight. I guess I was pretty much in shock that you'd done it, and then too, I was all caught up in trying to help another sentinel--of course, I didn't expect her to turn out to be a sociopathic, murdering criminal--um, well, anyway, the point is--"

"You sure there is one?"

"The point *is,* I realized I should never have let you throw me out."

"Oh, of course. I knew it was your fault I was a jackass," Jim said dryly.

"Man, you do *not* need my help for that," Blair shot back. His smile changed to a thoughtful frown and he said, "But think about it. First, you had that freaky-as-hell vision of shooting a wolf and having it turn into me. Second, the Alex Barnes-Two-Sentinels-Occupying-The-Same-Space stuff started, which pushed all your territorial buttons. And there was the sexual attraction between you two, which is actually really fascinating, and we should--" Blair took note of Jim's expression and went on smoothly, "--probably not get into that right now. Oh, but *then,* then Alex turns out to be a criminal, making the cop side of you go completely ballistic. And, to top it all off, you find out I that knew about Alex and hadn't told you--though, if you remember, I *did* try to tell you but you were so not in a listening mode--and *that* churns up a whole miasma of betrayal and anger and--"

Blair paused, his wildly gesturing hands suddenly still. He let the hands drop into his lap and shook his head in amazement. "Face it, Jim," he said, "you were one deeply confused, irrational, and screwed up guy."

"Around you, confusion's S.O.P.," Jim muttered. Then: "Miasma? Did you say 'miasma?'"

"Learn a new word each day and soon you'll be smart, too," Blair quipped. He turned sideways toward Jim and, intent on making his point, took hold of his friend's arm, lying across the back of the seat. "See, man, I'd actually gotten to the point where I was taking this whole sentinel thing for granted. You'd become so good at handling it that I'd started thinking it was just another part of your job--like marksmanship or knowing the penal code or taking turns on two wheels." Jim rolled his eyes. "You know, that it was skill you just switched on and off whenever you wanted."

Blair paused for breath and exhaled loudly. "But it's just so *not.* It's, like, strange and incredible and absolutely all-encompassing. It's totally a part of you, and it can *turn* on you any time."

He stopped, lost in considering the strangeness of it all.

Jim waited patiently, but when nothing more seemed forthcoming, he prompted, "Okay, you realized it was amazing, and that makes you guilty how?"

"Jim, I should *never* have left you when all that went down with Alex. I'm your guide. I'm *responsible* for you. That's way more important than hurt feelings or misunderstandings or anything. Anything. I should never have left you alone like that." Blair gave him an apologetic smile.

Surprise wiped Jim's face clean of all emotion. He opened his mouth, closed it again, then finally said, "That has to be the most--" He stopped, shaking his head in disbelief.

"The most amazing load of B.S. you've ever heard?" Blair finished wryly.

Jim reached out and flicked a finger down his friend's cheek. It was such an unexpected--and unexpectedly gentle--gesture that Blair flinched slightly in surprise. Then he smiled.

"No," the detective said. "That has to be the most *unselfish* thing I've ever heard. Blair, I--I did blame you for not telling me about Alex, but I think I understand *why* you helped her. I thought you were just hell-bent on having a second test subject, which reduced me to...well, to being just another guinea pig, and that...made me angry. But now I don't think that was why you did it--or at least, that wasn't the only reason. I think a lot of it was driven by this--" He waved a hand. "--this whole guide thing. You just said it yourself--you feel responsible." He grinned suddenly. "Hey, I'm feeling that way myself right now. You sure we can't just go home and lock ourselves in until this blows over?"

Said jokingly, but with a definite undercurrent of worry. A worry Blair deeply appreciated and completely understood--but was determined not to give in to.

"That's not how you do fieldwork, Jim," he replied. "You gotta move among the natives, experience the lifestyle. In fact, we should get going. Simon's waiting, and I'm hungry. You may be the brilliant, insightful guide today, but I need breakfast."

Jim snorted. "Brilliant and insightful? I don't have a clue what I'm doing."

"Man, I must say those same words at least six times a day--sometimes seven. But remember, it was you who made me see I was angry."

"But not mad," Jim said, still not quite understanding the distinction. He cranked the truck.

As they pulled out of the gas station, Jim heard a soft comment from his friend: "I think you make a terrific guide."

A terrific guide? Him? That was certainly food for thought.

*I should never have left you. I'm responsible for you.*

Jim smiled. Maybe a whole meal for thought.

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