New Ground
by Jmas

"Sandburg!"

God. The image is still playing out on the windshield in front of me...the image of Blair disappearing before my eyes as the ground opened up and swallowed him whole. My heart jumps again remembering the splintering crack, the futile...involuntary grasp I made from too far away to help...

No thanks to me, he wasn't badly hurt...if you call massive bruises across his back and shoulders not bad...

He tried to tell me he was okay.

Uh huh.

Been there, did that, learned the little blink-avoidance gesture that tells me 'okay' is a relative term in Sandburg's vocabulary. So I let him take his rubbings of the weird engraving on the steel doors, I let him climb the ladder up out of the hole, I even let him walk to the truck and get in by himself, all the while hearing the sharp little breaths he was taking to avoid breathing deeply.

I was very patient.

I was.

He must've had time to stiffen up by the time I pulled up in front of the loft. I parked the Ford and got out, waiting for it...

He climbed...or fell actually...out of the truck with a moan, a groan really. Noisy whatever it was...but a lot more honest about how much he was hurting than he was being.

The kid's tough, don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise. For all he looks like a good stiff wind might blow him out into the Pacific, Blair's one of the strongest people I know...strong inside where it counts. Sure he'll whine about little stuff like house rules and sneakers and paper cuts, but he's got a really annoying habit of hiding the bad stuff from me. Playing it down so I won't...what? Get mad at him? Never. Stop him from coming with me? Might think about it for all the good it would do. Fuss like a mother hen with one very important chick, er, guide? Can't help it.

Almost from the minute he introduced me to the undercarriage of that garbage truck there was just something *there.* Something that spoke to a part of me I barely had more than a name for...Sentinel. Even then I knew something was pulling us together. Something that would change our lives for good or ill and things were never going to be the same again...and that feeling wrapped itself up in the frenetic presence of a long-haired bundle of big words and excessive energy named Sandburg.

Anyway...he moaned, I hovered.

He straightened with an effort and tried to stare me into forgetting the evidence of my somewhat above average eyes. I might have let him get away with it too...if he hadn't listed off to port and grabbed onto the bumper of the truck to keep from falling.

'A' for effort there, Chief...better luck next time.

With surprisingly little protest after that I got him up to the loft and dropped him off at the bathroom with orders...yes, orders...to take a hot shower. For once he didn't need to be told twice. In the time it took me to round him up some clothes, put them on the bathroom shelf then start coffee and a frozen casserole, he was sighing and gasping as the hot water eased the ache out of him.

Mission accomplished...at least half the mission.

When I heard him climb out of the shower and start dressing, I let myself into the bathroom. As expected, he was standing there in his boxers, staring at the jeans in his hands like he was trying to decide if putting them on was worth the energy it would take to do it.

He didn't even try to hide his back from me...just sighed tiredly and stood there letting me look. His back was a mass of technicolor bruises...blue, black, purple, green...and raw red scrapes from his shoulder blades downward. I found myself grimacing in sympathy and pulled some ointment out of the medicine cabinet. I looked at him with one eyebrow raised. He knows I could and probably would do it anyway, but he appreciates it when I ask...

See, I am capable of learning new tricks...

He sat down on the closed toilet seat while I rubbed the stuff in gingerly, trying not to hurt him more than he already was. He tensed a few times, but stayed still...so unusually quiet for him it was almost unnerving. I wondered if he was that tired, that hurt or...more likely...already putting his brain to work on the weird writing we found down in that hole. I asked again without words if he needed help getting dressed and actually got a smile out of him...proof he was feeling, if not better, then at least more himself.

He smiled and shook his head with a weird little eyebrow quirk. Probably wondered when the heck I'd been possessed by the spirit of Florence Nightingale. Kind of wondered that myself, but it's just there when it comes to Sandburg...an immovable force - me, meeting an accident-prone object - him. Get used to it, kid.

Anyway, I left him contemplating the logistics of getting his sore, tired self into his clothes. Like I said, he's a smart guy...I was pretty sure he could figure it out. Ten minutes and a few "damns" later he came out of the bathroom. Looking pale, moving slow...but dressed.

The microwave dinged and I went to remove the casserole and set the table, while Sandburg made tea and surreptitiously snagged two Tylenol from the bottle in the cupboard.

Uh hunh...busted.

I just raised an eyebrow at him and finished setting out dinner. As we sat down to eat, I noticed the kid easing himself into the chair with a wince and just served everything up without a word...not our usual routine of snatch and grab.

"Thanks, Jim..." The voice was soft, tight...telling me more about how much he hurt than dozens of words ever could.

I just nodded back to him, saying without saying that it was okay...I was glad to help. The weird thing was it's true. True on a level I rarely look at too deeply. Three years around each other and it's become...nowhere near easy...but comfortable. And even I know there are a lot of times when I fall short of being the kind of friend I ought to be. I at least feel like I'm learning...especially at times like these.

I sent him over to the couch after he finished moving the casserole around his plate, too tired or too sore to eat. By the time I finished cleaning up, he was asleep against the arm of the couch. I double-checked his forehead for fever, no real reason...just did it. He didn't even stir at the touch so I figured it was best to let him rest where he was. Covering him up with the blanket we keep across the back of the couch, I headed for my own shower and then to bed.

I'd reached that point where sleep hovers gently and reality is beginning to fade when I heard a sound below me. Blair...sitting at the table with a small light, books and his laptop...pouring over the rubbing he'd taken earlier.

Incorrigible...absolutely, totally hopeless

In the end, he and Cassie and some hi-tech transcription program figured it all out. A possible fortune in gold underneath the city and someone determined enough to kill...repeatedly...to get it. A late night call after Cassie went way beyond the limits of her position resulted in a missing Blair Sandburg.

I was not a happy man.

We were damn near too late. Five minutes...probably less...and Blair would have been shot and/or buried beneath so much stone and dirt I'd never have seen him again...even his body. Too, too damn close, but he kept them from killing him before I could get there, stalled for time...got closer to pissing off Mr. Steel Cap than I even want to think about. But he's alive. Dirty, exhausted but damn it all alive.

...........

Watching him sleep huddled up against the window of the truck, big black smudges that aren't just dirt under his eyes, I sigh deeply as I pull into my usual parking place and shut off the engine.

I have nightmares already about the last time I was too late to save him. The how many other times now when it was just too damn close to call? He shouldn't have to do this. He *doesn't* have to do this. So why does he? Why do I let him?

The Sentinel thing? The shaman thing? The friendship thing? All of the above?

I sit back against my own window and watch him, listening in to breathing only a little raspy from all the dust we inhaled running just seconds ahead of that tunnel collapse. I owe him...more than a dinner can cover, more than just the control he's given me over my senses, more than I can ever tell him, more than I can ever hope to repay...

I think he knows...I hope he does.

I need to get him home, washed up and in bed. It's been a tough couple of days for both of us. This much I can do for him, a small payment on what he's given me. I may never be able to just come right out and say it, but I can show it. I can tread this new ground called 'my life as a Sentinel' and hopefully, together, the rest will fall into place.