For Lisa. Happy Birthday, my friend!

Chinks in the Armor
by ysone

I gave it a month. I would have said a week, tops, but I know Jim better than that. He has a stubborn streak a mile wide. If for no other reason than to prove everyone wrong, he'll stick with it a month. 'It' being a certain undisciplined, wild dressing, motor-mouth, step-on-your-last-nerve anthropologist.

Now, I'm not forgetting this so-called 'Sentinel' mumbo jumbo. I couldn't if I wanted to. Stuff like that…well, it sticks in your mind. I'm not entirely sure where I stand on that, regardless of the kid's explanation. I've seen Jim do some extraordinary things in the past few weeks. Yeah, his hearing has gotten…shall we say 'acute'…and ditto on his vision. God knows what's going on with his other senses. But I'm sure there's a perfectly sane explanation. Unfortunately, I'm at a loss to come up with one.

Point is, I gave it a month…and I was wrong.

It's now going on day forty-seven, with no end in sight.

I have to give the kid credit, he's fit in around here a damn sight better than any of us thought at the onset. Hell, until he opens that "know-it-all-professor mouth" I can sometimes forget he's even here. He blends in. I guess that's what anthropologists do. Still, it's a little surprising. I mean, here's this bright-eyed, too-energetic-for-his-own-good kid, hanging with a bunch of no-nonsense, shake-'em-down-if-they-don't-fit-the-mold detectives, and he's blending in! Go figure.

I blame my men for that. Not all of them, but the core group. They let this kid weasel in, charm their socks off, and essentially, make a place for himself. The others…well, let's just say some of the hard-ass cops around here are just that, hard-ass cops, and leave it at that. The kid is going to have to prove himself to each of them, one by one. Funny thing is, it wouldn't surprise me if he did just that. God help us.

I always thought I was one of those "hard-ass cops" myself. It's an image I've worked hard on over the years, an image as important to my job description as my deep, rich -- meaning authoritative -- voice. Let's face it, you can't be the boss if you can't bellow and have 'em quaking in their boots. So, being a hard-ass is part and parcel with the job. Last week, hell, two days ago, that's what I would have said I was. Now…damn kid has placed the smallest of chinks in this hard fought, hard won, previously impenetrable armor.

Not that Sandburg has proven himself to me, not completely. Hell, it's only been forty-seven days, four hours and sixteen minutes -- not that I'm keeping track. It takes a whole lot more than tenacity to buy my faith. We're talking about the welfare and safety of not only one of my best detectives, but also my friend. I'm not going to just close my eyes to the eccentricities of this kid and accept him on blind faith. Not when Jim's life could very well depend on him. Not in this century!

But I have found myself cutting the kid some slack lately -- well, that may be too strong a statement. Let's say, I don't bellow quite as loud in his direction these days. Not that he really paid me a lot of attention when I did.

It all started with a pair of tickets. Not just any tickets, mind you. These were *THE* tickets! At least in my opinion. I'm a hockey fan. Now, most of my friends are basketball fans, but there are a few who enjoy the game as much as I do. These tickets were for one of the biggest rivalry games of the year, the game that would decide state bragging rights for the year to come -- and I had a pair! It took an act of God to get them, too. Literally. I'd tried to get tickets, but the game had long since sold out, and I didn't have enough strings to pull to manage it. However, a pair had fortuitously fallen into my lap, thanks to a local businessman who needed a really, really big favor and was willing -- albeit reluctantly -- to part with the tickets in exchange. Nothing illicit, just a "you scratch my back" kind of thing.

So I had a pair of tickets to *THE* game, and thus began my downfall. My first choice for the other ticket had been my son. My son! I helped raise the kid; you would think I would have had some influence over his likes and dislikes, and therefore, he should have loved the game. Right? Wrong! He said he would go with me, but he made it clear he wouldn't enjoy the experience, and he made it equally clear there were places he would rather be on a Friday night. If you've ever taken a teenager somewhere he didn't really want to go, you know how much "fun" that would have been. As much as I love my boy, I wasn't about to let him spoil this game for me. I retracted my invitation. His delight was depressing.

Still, I figured, no problem. This was the biggest game of the year. Right? Piece of cake finding someone to share the other ticket with. Right? If only!

My second choice was Jim. One of my closest friends. If you can't count on a friend like Jim, who can you count on? No one, obviously. I issued the invitation with proper pomp and circumstance, quite proud of myself for being so magnanimous and determined that he would see it as such. I really laid it on thick, too. What a waste. It had totally slipped my mind that he would be in Seattle for a weekend conference I had insisted he attend. Somehow, he felt that was poetic justice. I didn't see the humor.

Then he had the nerve to tell me how much Sandburg enjoys the game of hockey. He actually recommended that I ask the kid to accompany me. There are no words to describe my joy at the prospects. Oh, wait, yes there are, and I used them all, ending with a resounding "over my dead body!"

Leaving Jim laughing in my wake, I sought out my third choice. Joel Taggart owed me. There was no way he could say no. Well, actually there was a way he could say no. It involved mouthing the word and putting enough air behind it to make it audible.

"No."

For the life of me, I don't understand why dinner with his wife should have been that difficult to postpone to another night. Hell, anniversaries come regular as clockwork, every year, year after year. A man that inflexible didn't deserve my extra ticket anyhow. It wasn't like he was my only choice. I still had a station full of detectives to consider.

Ed Hill, captain of Homicide and a semi-dear friend…becoming dearer by the moment. He was fourth choice, it was true, but I knew I'd have a good time with Ed. Hell, I'd even let him spring for beer and burritos as a thank you for the ticket. I thought he was going to cry when I issued the invitation, and I was feeling pretty damn smug for making the man's day…until he explained that his oldest had a violin recital on Friday night. For long, tense moments, he actually considered aloud the repercussions of begging out to take me up on my offer. I've met his wife. I talked him out of it. It'd be much too difficult on his men to have to investigate their own captain's homicide.

As the days flew by, my choices evaporated like spit on a July sidewalk.

Rafe and Brown were quite the comedians. Each recommended I ask the other. I left them arguing over which one had to go with me. Damned if I was going to waste my precious ticket on either of them!

Hank Masterson actually laughed in my face. I wonder if he remembered that I was the one who set stake out schedules.

Mark Donovan offered to buy both tickets from me so he could take his girlfriend. He offered to buy my tickets! I don't think it's necessary to repeat my response.

One by one, I cycled through the entire Major Crime department, half of homicide, and most of the hierarchy of the law enforcement world. By the morning of the game, I was beginning to get desperate. I was left with three viable choices. The janitor, going alone or…Sandburg.

I was actually considering the janitor when the least palatable of the choices entered the bullpen and made a beeline for my office. Without bothering to knock, the long-haired, loud-mouthed object of my annoyance opened the door and stuck his head in.

"Hey, Simon. You busy?"

"Don't I look busy, Sandburg?" I snapped.

"Actually, no," he replied, slipping in and approaching my desk. "You look like you're daydreaming."

Smart ass little upstart! I scowled and grabbed the closest file folder and a pen. "What do you want, Sandburg?"

"Jim was running late this morning, so he asked me to drop this report by on my way to class." He tossed a manila folder onto the desk in front of me. "He said you have his hotel number if you have any questions about it."

I nodded and moved the folder to my inbox. "Thank you," I said, dismissing the kid.

He took the hint graciously, lifting one hand in a half-wave and heading for the door.

No...nononononono! I actually bit my lip in an effort to quell my thoughts, or at least keep them from passing my lips. It was useless. Besides, time was fast running out.

"Sandburg!"

The kid stopped with his hand on the door. Damn, if I could have held it in just one minute more…

"Yeah, Simon?"

"Captain Banks." Why do I waste my time correcting him, when I know it's fruitless?

A smirk worked the corners of his mouth as he gave a sloppy half-salute. "Sir, yes, sir, Captain Banks, sir!"

"Smart ass!" I shook my head. Just how old was this kid again? Twelve? "I suppose you have plans for tonight?" Of course he did, and they probably involved a leggy co-ed.

"Yeah, I do," he said moving back to stand before my desk. "The game of the century is on tonight. State bragging rights are on the line, man. Thank God it's sold out, or there'd be a blackout."

"You like hockey?"

"Well, yeah, who doesn't, man?"

I closed my eyes briefly, giving myself one last chance to back out.

"Simon? You okay? You look a little green."

I opened my eyes to see the kid standing much too close and looking at me with way too much concern. "Fine! I'm fine, Sandburg, back off!" He took a step back, surprise replacing the concern. "Oh, hey, man, sorry." He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. "Did you want something, Si--Captain Banks? Oh, wait! I've got an idea. Jim says you're a big hockey fan, too. You want to come over and catch the game with me? It'd be cool to have someone to watch it with." His face fell a fraction. "But you probably have plans already, don't you? I'll bet Daryl is coming over to share it with you. How cool, father and son, sharing the biggest game of the year. Makes me sorta wish…"

He trailed off for a minute, his focus turning inward. I thought I caught a wistful look in his eyes, but it was gone before I could be sure.

"Anyway, yeah, that's my plan, Simon. Beer, pretzels and the game on the tube."

"I, um…" I cleared my throat loudly. "I have a pair of tickets to the game…"

Stunned, the kid's mouth dropped open. "Oh, wow, how'd you manage that?"

"Never mind how. The question is…" Damn it! "…do you, um, want to go with me?"

Something happened then that I never in a million years would have thought possible. The kid went catatonic…speechless…stunned to silence. Literally. His mouth opened a couple of times, but no sound came out. His eyes grew huge, and that's saying a lot when you're talking about a kid with eyes like beach balls to begin with. It was almost comical, but I restrained myself from laughing.

"You…you're serious?"

"Do I look like I have time to waste on a joke?"

"You're asking me? Why me? Why not…Daryl or…or Joel…or…"

"Are you saying you don't want to go?"

"Oh! No, man, not at all! I want to go…I just…"

"You just what?"

"I just don't understand why you're asking me."

"Because I don't know the janitor," I mumbled.

"Huh?"

"Let's just say my son doesn't care for the game, Jim's out of town, and most of my friends have other plans."

"Oh. And you don't know the janitor, so I was your last resort."

I frowned. I hadn't meant it to sound quite so…offensive. Embarrassed, I snapped, "Do you want to go, Sandburg? Or do I need to track down the janitor?"

"I want to go!" he grinned. "Hell, I don't care if you were blackmailed into asking me, I would kill to see this game in person!"

"I'll pick you up at five-thirty," I growled. "Now, don't you have a class you need to get to?"

Still grinning, he backed toward the door. "Thanks, Simon! Man, you don't know what this means to me! You won't regret it, I promise! I'll keep my mouth shut the whole night. You won't know I'm there. I'll--"

"Sandburg!"

He stopped at the door. "Yeah?"

"Get out of here!"

I managed to contain my smile until he was on the elevator.

Five-thirty sharp I pulled into the parking lot at Jim's loft, surprised to find Sandburg waiting on the curb. We made the trip in near silence…at least it was silent after I reminded the kid of his promise to keep his mouth shut. He dutifully snapped it closed, not opening it again, except for the four times in route that he felt the need to express his appreciation for the invitation. I scowled in his direction, but secretly, I was amused by his barely contained enthusiasm. He was actually bouncing in his seat, for God's sake!

I handed over my prize tickets at the gate, accepting the stubs in return, and headed for the closest concession stand. We were early enough that there wasn't much of a line.

"If we're going to get something to eat," I said, drawing the kid's attention, "we'd better do it now."

"You go ahead," he said, slowing to a stop a few feet away from the window. "I'll wait here."

"You're not eating?"

He shook his head and buried his hands in his jeans' pockets. "Nah, I'll wait until I get home."

Realization sank in with the reddening of his face. He was broke. An easily solved problem. "You want a hot dog or a burrito?"

"Simon, I don't want anything. I'm fine."

"Tonight is my treat, kid."

"Hey, man, the ticket was more than enough."

"Sandburg, I'm getting you something, so I might as well make it something you want." The look I gave him didn't leave room for argument, not that this particular look has ever worked before.

"Burrito."

Well, hell! Imagine that! Either I was getting better with the look, or he was hungry. I'd bet on the latter. It must take a hell of a lot of fuel to run those engines wide open all the time.

We got our food and a couple of beers and headed for our seats. To my surprise and pleasure, they were wonderful -- thank you, I & E Corporation! We sat down with time to spare. Sandburg seemed content to take in every nuance of the massive arena, his alert eyes missing nothing. I was content to enjoy the moment. Maybe this wasn't going to be as bad as I had imagined. The kid was behaving, and to tell you the truth, I was happy just to have someone to share the game with, someone who actually seemed to care as much as I did about the outcome.

"Thanks, Simon!"

I stopped mid-bite, looking up to meet the sparkling blue eyes beside me. "You said that already."

"I'm saying it again," he laughed. The sound was easy and free and straight from the heart.

"Well, stop already," I growled. "You're here. No need to keep rubbing it in."

Another laugh. "You're not fooling me, Simon."

My eyes narrowed of their own volition. What the hell was that supposed to mean? "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Let's just say, you would not have enjoyed Carlos' company."

"Carlos?"

"The janitor. He's thinks soccer is the only sport of the civilized world. Besides, he barely speaks English."

"And that's a bad thing?" I couldn't help the dig. Okay, I could have if I'd wanted to. I didn't.

The remark evidently hit home. "Hey, man, I told you I'd keep my mouth shut if that's what you want. I intend to keep my word."

Sandburg sat back and resumed eating. His eyes returned to their perusal of the quickly filling arena, but he made no more comments.

I frowned, feeling slightly ashamed of myself. He'd been enjoying himself and not really getting on my nerves…much. I had no right to criticize. "So, how do you know?"

Sandburg looked up at me, and that's when I realized my mistake. He wasn't insulted or hurt at all by my remark. He was simply giving me the peace and quiet I'd asked for. And now I'd blown it with one casual conversation starter. I mentally groaned.

"Know what?"

The damage was done. "About Carlos."

"I'm an observer." He seemed to think that was explanation enough.

"You observe the janitor?"

"I observe everyone." He took a bite of burrito and washed it down with a swallow of beer. "You'd be surprised how much you can learn, and how often what you learn can come in handy."

I was intrigued now in spite of myself. "For instance…?"

He swallowed hastily. "For instance, did you know that Mr. Bracha, who refills the vending machines, is a Holocaust survivor?"

"And you know this because…?

"Because I saw the tattoo when I was apologizing for that, um, vending machine incident." 'That vending machine incident.' A deceptively casual reference to a traumatic day for us all. That was the day I'd realized that this smart mouthed, punk kid wasn't the mama's boy he sometimes appeared to be. Okay, not that day -- I had other things on my mind that day -- but later, when I sat down and really read the report, not just skimmed over the highlights. It hadn't shocked me to read what he'd gone through, or how he'd handled himself, or even how close to death he'd come on a couple of occasions. What had shocked me was the fact that he'd come back. After all that happened that day, he'd shown right back up at the station the very next day. That was when I realized just how serious this 'Sentinel' business really was.

"I'd seen pictures of the tattoos, so I asked him about it. Man, you wouldn't believe his story. He was just a kid, but he has a remarkably detailed memory. You should really talk to him one day. It's well worth your time to get a living account of a dramatic piece of history."

I shook my head. "Only you, Sandburg."

"Only me, what?"

Before I could respond, the crowd began cheering, and I realized the teams were taking the ice. The game began shortly thereafter and conversation became impossible, but I continually found my gaze drifting to the young man seated next to me. Sandburg, I quickly recognized, was every bit as big a fan of the game as I was. He enjoyed himself with a wild abandon reserved for the young.

It wasn't even a close game. The final score was as lopsided as a three legged table, which only made the night better -- *if you happened to be on the winning side, and we definitely were. I was in such a good mood that I didn't even grumble -- much -- at the bumper-to-bumper exodus from the parking lot.

"That was just too great!" Sandburg crowed as we inched forward a bare foot or so in the line of traffic. "Man, I can't thank you enough for the ticket!"

"Ahnt!" I warned. "What did I tell you about that?"

He snorted. "I'm grateful, Simon. Get over it."

I fought back a chuckle.

"I can't remember when I had such a great time," he added.

Me, either, but I was definitely keeping that to myself. After all, come Monday morning we'd be back to Captain Banks and his obnoxious observer.

"Fess up, man," he continued, as though reading my mind, "you had a good time, too."

"Sandburg, we blew away Seattle -- of course I had a good time!"

"And you don't even mind that I wasn't Carlos, right?"

I wasn't falling into that trap. "I don't know, soccer and hockey are somewhat similar, you know. He probably wouldn't have had much trouble following the game."

He snorted again, crossing his arms over his chest. "Yeah, right. I may not be Jim or Joel or any of your real friends, but you had a good time tonight, and you know it, whether you'll admit it or not."

I didn't have an argument for that one, so I changed the subject. "You haven't been to a hockey game before, have you?"

Evidently surprised that I had observer skills of my own, he looked up at me with wide eyes. "How'd you know?"

I raised an eyebrow at him. "You think I got this job by default?"

He chuckled. "Nah, man. It's obvious you got it on your good looks."

"Smart ass."

"Better than a dumb ass."

"So, I take it I was right?"

"Yeah. Been to the World Series and the Super Bowl, but never a hockey game, which is sort of ironic, because I'm a hockey fan at heart."

"Super Bowl?" Now I was impressed.

He turned to look out the window at the fascinating view of another line of slow-moving cars. "Yeah, two of them, actually."

There was a note of…sadness? wistfulness?…in his tone that told me there was a story there. Unfortunately for my curiosity, it didn't seem as though I was going to get it. The kid was finally making good on his promise to keep his mouth shut.

The traffic chose that moment to disentangle and begin a steady forward motion. I let the conversation die, and in silence we rode to the loft. It wasn't until he was stepping from my car and about to close the door that he finally found his voice. "Thanks again, Simon. I had a blast, man!"

He started to close the door.

"Sandburg…"

Stopping mid swing, he stooped down to look at me. "Yeah?"

I hesitated, not knowing what in the hell I had intended to say, but knowing something was required. "I…uh…I'll see you Monday morning."

The kid smiled, and I swear to God, his expression took on this perceptive look, as though he knew damn well what I'd intended to say. For some reason, that ticked me off. I scowled at him, which only made his smile grow. He slammed the door and turned to jog to the door of the building. I waited until he was safely inside, then headed home, feeling about as bumfuzzled as I'd ever felt.

Monday morning found me in good spirits, thanks to a great game on Friday, followed by a quiet weekend with my son, but I carefully schooled my expression before I entered my department. There are certain advantages to keeping your men on their toes. I had a reputation to protect, after all.

Jim was back from Seattle, I noticed as I headed for my office, and a certain long haired sidekick was back at his side. As I passed, growling a 'welcome back' to Ellison on my way, both men looked up. Sandburg's broad smile nearly made me break my stride, but I quickly recovered, and hurried into my sanctuary.

Damn kid. Twenty years I've worked to perfect my image, earn a little fearful respect, and some snot-nose brat, barely dry behind the ears bounces into my department and in forty-seven days, blows all that hard work to hell and back.

Like I said, there is now the smallest of chinks in this hard fought, hard won, previously impenetrable armor. I'm going to have to work real hard to keep that crack from growing into a full scale chasm.

There are some still taking book on how long Ellison will put up with the kid, but I've dropped out of the pool. They don't have a spot for forever.

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