Yet another S2-related fic...this time a sequel to "Made for Each Other" and "Transitions", both found here at Idol Pursuits. :) I recommend being familiar with "Transitions", at least, before reading this one.

Many thanks to Mackie for the encouragement, enthusiasm, and nagging. :)

Disclaimer: I don't own the boys, but I borrow them with the utmost respect for those who do. No copyright infringement intended.

Feedback always welcome publicly, or privately at: jen526@aol.com

Rules of Engagement
just jen

Well, at least it's warm here.

I was beginning to think that I'd never be warm again...that maybe the whole concept of "warmth" was just a fantasy I dreamed up somewhere between life and death. But the Mexican sun has proven me wrong with a vengeance, and all in all, I'm not entirely sure I didn't prefer the cold.

The tent we've been sharing with a dozen rescue workers is dank and airless, even now when everyone is off manning the makeshift relief base. The dirty cot I'm lying on is near the doorway, but no breeze makes it past the heavy canvas flap. The thought of getting up and opening it rolls sluggishly through my mind, but that much activity seems impossible with the humid heat weighing me down.

I feel like death warmed over. Literally. The physical exertion of the last few days is more than I've had since...well, since I died a little over a month ago. It leaves me feeling nauseous and exhausted. Sweat sticks my clothes to my body, and stray bits of hair cling tenaciously to my face and neck despite my best efforts to pull them all back. For the first time in nearly ten years, I wonder whether it might not be worth it to just chop it all off and be done with it. It's a moot point. I don't have the stamina to bother. Jim will be back soon. Maybe I'll have him do it.

Nah. Asking would be an admission of weakness, and *that* would be treading much too close to a one-way ticket back to Cascade. Jim hasn't said anything about it yet, but knowing him, he's already trying to figure out how to convince me not to go into the jungle with him tomorrow. Not that he'll be obvious about it. Outwardly, he's been very accepting of my place in this. He knows that we're a team and we need to handle this together, but he balks at it, anyway.

I can't really blame him. I understand completely where he's coming from. There's this whole Ellison/Sandburg dynamic that somehow overnight morphed into something else entirely, and that's going to take some getting used to.

Personally, I'm ready to believe that this new partnership can be even better than the old. I'm sure Jim will see it, too, once he's able to stop looking at me as if I'm going to spontaneously stop breathing between one heartbeat and the next. It'll just take a little time. Time that we'll have plenty of, assuming we both come out of the jungle alive when this all over.

It's not something I care to think about, so I close my eyes and try not to think about the future.

We arrived here three days ago, less than 24 hours after the Mexico City blast. Working with the government has its advantages at times like this. No non-military personnel were being permitted within 60 miles of the bomb site, but Jim had arranged to be included in the relief troops headed for this base near Costa del Fiero - a village so close to the capital city that the government has issued gas masks to the entire population "just as a precaution."

It's a bleak place. Life for miles around has simply ceased while families wait for news of their loved ones. The streets are littered with blank faced men and women, stunned at the magnitude of the tragedy. Others grieve openly - wailing and sobbing for those already lost. The only place of hope in the dusty streets is this inadequate tent city set up by the American military to aid in the relief effort. Residents gather here to check the lists of casualties and survivors, and when one of the latter is found, there are a few moments of joy.

We chose this city seemingly at random from among the options available to us. Glancing down the list of drop sites, Jim jabbed at the name resolutely, seemingly at random.

"That one."

I didn't bother asking why. He's been operating on instinct since news came of the bombing. Truth be told, I think we both have. There's something charged about the air here. Jim says it's the same feeling he had all those weeks prior to the convenience store shooting and Alex's arrival in our lives...except this time he knows what it is and is ready for it. I don't doubt that he knows what he's talking about, but I can't help but disagree with that assessment. There's an indescribable...wrongness...to the electricity in the air. I tried to explain it a few times, find out if Jim felt it too, but it's apparently not something I can define. I understand now why Jim's so hesitant to talk about the mystical aspects of this. There's no way to put it into words. I just really feel like there's something I'm missing. Something I'm not seeing. Something I damn well better see before we go into that jungle tomorrow.

If I could just remember more of that day, I think I'd have it. It's been coming back to me in bits and pieces, mostly the beginning and the end. Alex showing up in my office, a few lines of dialog between us, nothing solid, just words and phrases here and there, then nothing, then numbing cold and hands holding me down and that last moment before my air gave out. That moment where I knew what was coming.

The room suddenly doesn't seem as sweltering anymore as I struggle with the memories, reliving that icy struggle, trying to pull out more details. I wish now that Jim hadn't gone to get supplies. Wish he would hurry up and get back. This would be so much easier if Jim were here.

As if by magic, the curtain over the doorway is pushed aside. There's a split second of blinding light, turning the darkness behind my eyelids a bright orange, but by the time I've opened my eyes, the light has been blocked with a familiar shape - slipping through and letting the curtain fall. For a while, he's still just a darker blur in the shadowed room, as my eyes adjust to the dark again.

"What's wrong?" He asks as I sit up to take a look at the supplies he's brought in with him. He gives me a closer look. "You look like hell, Sandburg."

I don't bother telling him that I *feel* like hell. He knows it already. I just shake my head. "I'm fine."

I see him think about protesting that and change his mind. He's learning. I push the memories to the back of my mind and try to perk up for Jim's benefit. I pull the fraying rubber band out of my hair and try again to get it all pulled back.

"So, we're all set then?" Like we're going on a camping trip or something.

"Yeah. We'll have to do with dry rations, but we should be ok." He pauses. Gives me a searching look, trying to decide whether to tell me something or not.

"What?"

"I found her trail."

"What? Are you sure? Where? How did you...?"

Jim shrugs. "I was just walking back on that shortcut Jorge told us about and caught her...scent, I guess. Or, maybe..." He shrugs again, self-consciously, and I just nod encouragingly. This ability to sense Alex kinda freaks him out, I think. "I could just tell that she'd been there."

"How long ago?"

He shrugs again. "I don't know." He pauses, thinking about it. "A couple days." Another pause. "Probably not too long before we got here. That's why it's so strong here."

"It" being this little tingling, niggling feeling that screams "danger" with our every waking moment.

"OK, so we've got a starting point now. That's great." I grab one of the packs Jim has set down at the foot of the bed, flipping it open and examining its contents as best I can without actually unpacking it. On top there is a square, leather-bound case. I open it and find a handgun nestled within. Jim's watching me, eyes narrowed, waiting for a reaction.

He holds my gaze when I look up and says, deliberately, "That one's yours."

Letting it mean both the pack and the gun.

It's a challenge. And a reminder.

I look back down at the gun. I pick it up, balancing its weight in my hand, thinking back to the morning, only a few days ago, but seeming a lifetime, when we vowed to end this, one way or another. I imagine pointing it at Alex and pulling the trigger. A brief flash of memory surfaces - the kachink as she cocked her gun, aiming it...

It's a distracting memory - a new one. I try to follow it, but it fades, eluding my grasp like a dream that slips away just as you're waking. It's very confusing. If she had a gun, how did I...?

"Chief..." Jim's voice pulls me back to the present, and his expression has softened. He's thinking I'm having second thoughts. Thinking that I'm realizing I can't do it and preparing to tell me it's all okay and that he can handle this on his own. If I didn't understand him so well, I think I'd be insulted that he thinks I would come this far just to give up. I hold the gun up and summon a little grin.

"Is this thing legal?"

"Captain Royce knows I have it."

Which is military-speak for "No, it's not legal, but I pulled a few strings." I put the gun back in its case and give it a long, considering look.

Jim's not the only one with some big adjustments to make here. If I have to pull that trigger, I will.

As I put the gun back in the bag, Jim finally seems to get the point that I'm not backing out.

"You know how to use it?" He asks, clutching at straws.

"Just point-and-click, right?" I start to laugh, but he doesn't get it. He starts on a lecture about how it's not that easy and blah, blah, blah, but I wave him off. "I was kidding, man. I'll be fine with it. Trust me."

The last two words hang there for a minute, carrying much more weight than I intended, and Jim finally quirks up one corner of his mouth in a smile - a real smile.

"OK, then, Chief. If we're going to catch up with Alex, I'm gonna have to *trust* you to keep up the pace for the next couple days. Hope your up for it."

"I am."

And just like that, it's settled. We're back on the same wave-length and everything's copacetic. I go back to digging through the pack. Pretty standard gear. If not for the gun, we *could've* been going for a camping trip. As I'm closing it back up, Jim tosses me a bundle of green and khaki fabric.

"Here, Chief, try those on."

I unfold the clothes, holding the pants out in front of me. Another memory stirs, and I make an effort *not* to dwell on it. I don't know why the camouflage material should bring out a memory now. I've been surrounded by men and women swathed in the stuff for the last three days. Maybe just a result of all the earlier reminiscing. At any rate, it stays tantalizingly in the back of my mind until Jim comes around to my side of the cot, chuckling a little.

"Yeah, I know they aren't exactly haute-couture, but I've seen worse in your closet. Put 'em on."

He slaps me affectionately on the back, and suddenly, it's not Jim standing beside me but someone smaller, wirier, dressed in camouflage pants and a baggy overcoat. And I remember the harsh voice in my ear, saying "She's mine." And the blow that came out of nowhere, because Alex had already gone - tearing off in some sort of blind panic, and...

"Oh, god. It wasn't her."

It is suddenly way too cold and close in here and I finally have a reason for the indefinable wrongness I've felt in the air. He's here too. I can't breathe and I stumble out of the tent to feel the sunlight and fresh air and remind myself that I'm alive. Next thing I know, I'm on my knees in the dirt, in the middle of the road, and Jim is in front of me, hands on my shoulders, shaking me. I reach up and grab his arms to stop the shaking and take a few deep breaths.

It sinks in that we've got an audience - that the crazy Americans have put on quite a show for their Mexican hosts. A kindly woman asks Jim in Spanish if "the young man" needs a doctor. He repeats the question to me, hunching a little to be able to look in my eyes.

"Blair. Do you need a doctor?"

I shake my head. "No. Just help me up."

I tune out his reply to the woman as I'm climbing to my feet. There's way too much to think about here. Who is the man I remember? What does he have to do with this? Why didn't we find out about him when we investigated Alex? What was he doing at the school that morning? Why did he kill me?

Jim starts to head back into the tent, but I pull away and head in the opposite direction, to the path through the cherry orchard that was the shortcut Jorge Martinez showed us on our first night here. Now that I know what it is, the awareness of danger is stronger than ever. Jim is at my heels.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

I stop at the point where the pull of Alex and her...oh, god, her *guide*...veers off towards the denser jungle beyond the path. I look back at my partner.

"She's not alone, Jim."

"What?"

"We need to be ready. She has someone to help her now." To help her like I was trying to help her. To help her more than I could. Maybe to help her enough that she won't be handicapped by the pain anymore. None of which I've managed to convey to Jim.

"There was someone else at the fountain," I try again. "Alex had a gun. I think she was going to shoot me. I don't...I don't know what happened, but she left. She got scared and she left." Jim starts to interrupt, but I hold my hand up. "There was someone else...waiting...outside. I went after her, and there was someone standing there..."

"You think this person is the one who..." he trails off, unable to say it. "You think he's here now."

I nod and meet Jim's eyes. "I know he is. I can *feel* him."

I watch that sink in - understanding dawning in the clear eyes. Jim cocks his head slightly, seeming to test the wind, and his posture becomes, if possible, tenser and more alert than he's been since we got here. The Sentinel acknowledging the presence of a new enemy. He feels it too.

"So how does this change things?"

"I don't know. It depends on if he knows what he's doing." My mind seems to be working again. Jim's right. The important thing is to figure out how this affects our immediate goals. Time enough to figure out all the rest later. "Worst case scenario, he's figured out a way to stop her headaches. If she can use her senses without the pain, we've lost a big advantage."

Jim nods agreement. "But I've still got more experience." He points out. Like we're comparing the assets of two prize fighters - figuring out who's a safer bet. I try to convince myself that Jim's right. Whoever this new player is, he can't have been enough to teach Alex the level of control and fine-tuning that Jim's achieved in three years of living with these senses. In every way that matters, Jim...*we*...have the advantage. The only thing Alex has is a headstart. My money's still on us.

"This doesn't change anything," Jim affirms aloud. "She's still a terrorist responsible for thousands of deaths. And her...partner...we'll get him, too."

There's icy venom in his voice, brooking no further argument or disagreement. In a corner of my mind that hasn't given up on the whole "academic" scene, I wish there was some way to pick that tone apart, parse it out. How much of the emotion springs from the Sentinel's instinctive need to hunt down this rogue who's misused her gifts, the cop's need to stop a killer, or Jim's own, personal need for vengeance?

I lean back against a tree and watch him watch the jungle for a few minutes. Maybe it makes Jim feel like a lab rat, but I don't think I'll ever lose my fascination with...this. The way he stands there, so focused and in control, coiled and dangerous and ready to strike. The way he scans the jungle grimly, eyes narrowed, as if sheer will is enough to let him see *through* the greenery and across the miles to wherever Alex (and company) may be hiding. And the way I almost believe that, for this man at this moment, sheer will really might be enough. It's intimidating and awe-inspiring and infinitely beautiful.

And then Jim shakes off his reverie and glances over at me, and he's just Jim again, and something in my expression makes him do a double take.

"What?"

There are no words, and even if there were, now's not the time or place. So I turn it into a joke, wiping at my damp eyes and proclaiming melodramatically, "I love you, man."

It breaks the tension and Jim grins as he gives me a little shove back the way we came.

"Sorry, Chief. Bud Light isn't on the menu this evening. I'm sure Jorge has some vintage goat's milk, though."

"Really? Cool. You know, fermented goat's milk can have quite a kick to it."

Jim sighs and shakes his head, ruing his involvement with such an undisciplined partner, no doubt. "Don't get your hopes up. We've got an early morning tomorrow and no time for hangovers."

"Spoilsport."

"That's me. You wanna make something of it?"

"Nah."

"Good." Jim throws a companionable arm around my shoulders, and it feels very comfortable and very *right*, and I'm amazed all over again at the changes the last three years have wrought in both of us. Just as I'm trying, again, to find the words to explain it all, Jim adds, softly, "Love you too, Chief." And, as it turns out, it's not such a hard thing to describe after all.

 

--End--

Thanks for reading! ^_^