Disclaimer: The Sentinel, its concept and characters, do not belong to me, but I am borrowing them for some totally non profit fun.
Notes/warnings: Starts just before Cypher, finishes just around the time of Sleeping Beauty. Can't honestly think of any warnings.
Rating: Pretty much G would be my guess.
Lucky Charm
By Mele
It was a dark and stormy night…
Heh, I always wanted to start a story out that way. However, if you want the honest truth, it was a dark and stormy afternoon, which is quite the norm for Cascade, Washington, in February. A situation not improved by finding oneself lying in a gutter getting rained on, I might add. Now I know this is a common enough thing for some of my relatives, but I personally figured I was above that fate. Guess times are changing, and not for the better, if you ask me.
So there I was; cold, wet, ignored. Beneath anyone's notice, undeserving of anyone's concern…man, I'm depressing myself here. Then I saw them, coming on down the sidewalk. Sure, I recognized the type of man the bigger one was, and knew he'd be no help to me. But the little guy…he had possibilities. Sure enough those bright blue eyes fastened on me and a grin lit his face.
"Whoa, Jim! Must be my lucky day!" he declared, picking me up and waving me in front of his tall companion's face.
The big man grabbed the moving arm and I felt his intense gaze on me. "Wow, Chief, a 1959 nickel. Great, now you can have that operation you've been saving up for," he declared with sarcasm a deaf person could have heard.
"Ha-ha. Still, if a penny is worth a day of good luck, then a nickel has to be good for at least five," he insisted.
"Is that one of those obscure anthropological facts you're so fond of, Chief?" the big man asked with a decided smirk.
"Nah. That's a not-so-obscure mathematical fact," my new owner shot back with a smirk of his own and a quick duck to avoid a playful swat at his head. He rubbed me over his shirt then pulled out his wallet, tucking me in a small compartment that already contained a hundred dollar bill. "The so-called anthropological fact is that that much good luck needs to be saved, for a rainy day," the curly haired man said.
"Uh…Chief?" the big guy – Jim, I'm guessing – indicated the day with a broad gesture of his hand.
"Metaphorically speaking, Jim. Metaphorically speaking."
"Ah, another of those strange languages you like to spout, huh?"
"Geez, you're in a mood, today. What'd you do? Sneak a couple of buttermilk doughnuts when I wasn't looking?" my new owner – Chief? – asked with a suspicious look.
"What? I can't be in a good mood for no reason, Sandburg? And what are you doing, anyway? Adding that to your emergency hundred?"
"Yeah. Could come a day when that five cents is all that stands between me and disaster, you know? Wouldn't want to be a nickel short."
Jim snorted dismissively. "Yeah, riiiiight. And exactly what worth is a nickel, huh? Can't buy you a cup of coffee anymore. Or a candy bar or even a piece of gum. Hell, can't even make a phone call for that these days. An oversized penny is all it is, Chief."
I was livid! Of all the nerve! That over grown knuckle dragging Neanderthal, calling ME a penny! Okay, so my purchasing value was down a little…well…okay, a lot. I am still worth far more than a stinking penny. Why, in some places – Las Vegas, for instance – I am all but worshipped. A penny indeed. I was so incensed I almost missed my owner's defense of me.
"Hey, man, that's like harsh. A nickel will so too buy you a piece of gum. It may be kind of stale gum, but you can get it for a nickel."
Oh, yeah…he needs some serious help on those defensive skills…
Since emerging shiny and new from the mint in Denver back in '59, I've been around the horn a few times, seen my share of life. From a summer passed as the proud possession of a six-year-old girl in '61 to the year spent in Viet Nam in another young man's pocket, I've seen plenty. Most of the seventies found me in Las Vegas, in an endless round of slot machines and coin counters. Met a few older coins who'd been in that town for decades, which I found amazing. Most boring period was the year I spent in a vacant lot after falling out of a little boy's pocket, I came within a hair's breadth of being plowed under permanently. Death for a coin is not pretty - eternal inactivity.
So all-in-all, despite our inauspicious beginning, Blair Sandburg's back pocket was not a bad place to hang out. He's got an interesting life, this fella does, and I was never bored. Good thing, too, since my roommate wasn't the most pleasant guy to ever go into circulation; though that's a common enough problem with the larger denominations. The tenants in the pockets below were pretty few and far between, for the most part, but I didn't mind since it left me free to concentrate on his activities.
And my God, what activities!
It was two months before I began to figure out what he was doing. I mean, really. Was he a student or a cop or a teacher or a secretary or a counselor or a chef? And the answer to that totally depended on who you talked to. To that prune-faced woman in the main office at the university he was a student, but to sweet Mrs. Edwards down the hall he was that 'dear, dear boy with the cute tush'. To Jim, the Neanderthal, he was a not cop who did his reports and backed him up and ignored his orders, while Jim's boss, Simon, seemed to think Blair was alternately a blessing and/or a curse. To his students, who watched as my owner walked an average of two miles back and forth across the front of the classroom he was the best teacher on their schedule, and after class the most sympathetic ear on the faculty. Oh, yeah, almost forgot; he has another role, maybe more important than any of the others. He's the guide to a Sentinel.
And let's not forget the women. Young…old…every race, creed and culture…he attracted them everywhere he went. Besides the fun of hanging with a man with a very active social life, I got a kick out of how much it bothered his friends and acquaintances – especially those at the Cascade PD – that Blair could meet women so easily. Not that they said anything outright…oh, no. Not that bunch. But the looks directed at my boy's back would give a penguin frostbite, let me tell you. Didn't faze him in the least, and quite frankly I don't think the resentment was real, anyway. They all seemed to know Blair was the kind of guy who'd give you the shirt off his back, if he figured you really needed it. Folks tend to respond well to that kind of attitude, no matter how jealous they might be.
Still and all, Blair didn't just have his jobs and his ladies taking up his time and energy. Oh, no, he had the fallout from his own particular brand of bad luck to deal with, too. Geez, for a pacifist he sure managed to get himself in the most violent situations. Kidnapped frequently. Shot. Shot at. Drugged. Hit by everything from fists to radio towers. Jumped off a cliff. Hell, jumped out of a freaking plane…and him afraid of heights. Airlifted out of the woods. And need I go on? He even managed to nearly get himself killed while spending time at a monastery. My God, it's like living life in a Sylvester Stallone movie, for pity's sake. And let's not forget the spiders. No wonder he was anxious to find some sort of good luck charm…he must have REALLY pissed someone off in a prior life.
So, yeah, life with Blair Jacob Sandburg was not exactly sedate and boring. Still, I never expected it to end the way it did…
It was apparently some sort of altercation between two very large, very drunk bikers and their equally large and intoxicated women. Two patrolmen had initially tried to separate the two couples, but the argument only escalated, and it was at that point that we wandered into the situation.
Jim, whose size and Neanderthalness comes in handy in these situations, told Blair to stay in the truck, then he waded right into the fray. And Blair, being Blair, promptly LEFT the truck and seized the smallest large woman, pulling her away from the others and attempting to calm her down.
He really should have known better than to pick on the apparent 'runt of the litter.' It never worked well on him, so why would he think it would work on anyone else? She promptly walloped him upside the head before heading back to her own 'Prince Charming', who was in the process of being cuffed by one of the patrolmen.
Then, for reasons that quite escape me, the OTHER woman seemed to take exception to that treatment of Blair, and she grabbed him, pulling him away from the fracas, albeit rather unsteadily, babbling on about protecting him. Since she stood a good two inches taller than Blair, and probably tipped the scales at double his weight, she had little trouble gaining the upper hand. Until Jim saw what was going on.
The big lug immediately quit toying with his opponent, felling him with a single punch, then hurried over, grabbing Blair by the upper arms and pulling him from the woman's grasp. Her grip did indeed slip, but she made a last ditch effort to retain her prize by hooking her meaty hands in his hip pockets. The problem was his jeans were an older pair, very well worn, and when Jim gave another almighty tug both back pockets ripped out completely, spilling Blair's wallet – and, more importantly, me – to the ground.
"Now look what you did!" the big biker babe wailed, waving the two swatches of denim in the air and glaring at Jim. "You give him back!"
Blair was immediately tucked behind his larger friend, who faced the inebriated woman with barely controlled anger. "He's mine!"
Okay, now that's not exactly a reassuring argument. See, I told you he's a Neanderthal; even Blair looked a little shocked by that reaction.
"Jim, I'm not yours either," he protested, backing away from the big guy.
"I didn't mean it THAT way, Chief. Geez. What I meant is that you're not hers…she can't have you…I mean…"
"How bad a blow did you take to the head there, Jim? Let the not-so-nice lady go with the officers, and let's check you out," he soothed the big lug, even as he – thank you, God – remembered to collect his wallet, which he tucked absently in the front pocket of his flannel shirt.
"It's not that. I just didn't think she was up for a deep, philosophical debate at the moment. Straight and to the point was what was needed."
"'He's mine'? That's your definition of 'straight and to the point'? Not that I don't appreciate the rescue, but…" He didn't get a chance to finish that statement.
"And exactly what part of 'stay in the truck' did you not understand, Sandburg? If you'd do what you're told to do for once you wouldn't need the rescue, now would you?"
Jim Ellison is one man who doesn't need pointers in the fine art of misdirection. Soon Blair was so busy defending his decision to leave the truck he didn't have time to berate his friend about the 'he's mine' comment. Must be something he learned in covert ops.
The discussion…argument…whatever…continued until we got to the police station and up to the Major Crime floor. There it was interrupted by Simon's lilting bellow drifting across the bullpen.
"Ellison! My office, NOW! And bring Sandburg with you!"
"You wanted something, Sir?" Jim asked all innocence as he and Blair stood in front of the Captain's desk.
"What did I tell you yesterday I wanted on my desk first…FIRST…thing this morning?" the big man barked out. I swear that man is the most endearing cross between a drill sergeant and Charles Dickens era headmaster I've ever met.
"The DeLeon case file, Sir."
"And do you consider noon 'first thing in the morning'?" the captain asked icily.
"No, Sir."
"So where is that file, Detective?"
"Uh, Simon?" Blair physically flinched at the glare Banks sent his way. But my boy is not easily cowed, especially since he labors under the delusion that Simon's bark is worse than his bite. "I put it on your desk last night, after you left."
"WHERE on my desk?" he demanded, indicating the file-strewn area.
"Right here, Simon. Underneath Brown and Rafe's files, which you also wanted first thing this morning," the observer bravely pointed out, pulling the requested paperwork from underneath an untidy heap.
"Good. Thank you." Banks said brusquely. "Now, get to work."
"Right away, Sir," Ellison replied, ushering Blair out ahead of him and closing the door firmly. "God, I hate when he's under review."
"Yeah, but on the plus side he'll probably take us all out to dinner next week to make up for it," Blair replied with a grin.
They were right in the middle of the bullpen when it happened, their only warning a flurry of activity as a disheveled man burst into the Major Crime unit, waving a gun in his right hand.
"Gun!" Brown shouted in warning, before ducking behind his own desk, an action mirrored by everyone else but Ellison and Sandburg, who had no handy desk to hide behind.
The man drew a bead and fired on my young owner before Blair could even begin to react, the impact of the bullet sending him stumbling into Ellison. They both tumbled to the floor in a heap as two shots rang out in answer, cutting the gunman down.
"Blair!" Jim's voice was frantic as he laid his guide down and searched for the wound.
"Ow…damn, that hurts," Sandburg moaned, his hand rubbing his chest. He pulled his hand away with a puzzled look at Ellison, whose own gaze was fixed on that shaking appendage. That shaking, unbloodied appendage.
"What the hell?"
Jim patted down the front of his friend, pulling out his wallet with a dawning look of mingled horror and wonder. He flipped the billfold open, then reached in with unsteady fingers to pull me from the inner compartment.
OHMIGOD! I'VE BEEN SHOT!
Ah, crap. Right there in poor old TJ's head was a disfigured slug, splatted out to completely obliterate the former president's face, while the image of Monticello was bowed outward, with just a smidgen of lead bleeding through. Oh, God, I'd never be able to ride through a vending machine again, mangled as I was. What kind of life could I look forward to, with this kind of damage?
I was distracted from my self-pity by Ellison's shaky voice.
"God, Chief, that was WAY too close. You said when you found this coin that one day it might be all that stood between you and disaster. Talk about a prediction being right on the money," he said with a soft reverence in his tone.
Blair sat up with a rueful chuckle. "I can't believe you just said that," he snickered.
Jim seemed to realize what he'd said, and joined in the laughter. "No pun intended," he insisted, as he helped his friend to his feet.
"Right. Well, I guess this means my life is worth at least a plugged nickel, right?" the younger man countered, slapping Jim's chest lightly.
"Ow, that's even worse than mine," the Sentinel protested, smiling warmly at his guide as Simon and the other detectives surrounded them.
"Sandburg, are you okay?" Banks demanded, looking a little too worried about his troublesome observer. Hmmm…maybe Blair was right about him.
"Blair! How? How? I…I saw him shoot you! No way he missed!" Brown exclaimed, his expression shocked.
"Fortunately, H, I was wearing my bullet proof nickel," the kid quipped, holding me up for the others to see. Soon I found myself being passed around, and I was plenty shocked, let me tell you. These guys treated me like I was some kind of hero, more than one THANKED me for stopping that bullet, there was talk of making a special display for me. I was floored by the acclaim. Makes my injury very much worth it, I felt like a true hero, not something very many coins can claim in their lives. Still, eventually I was handed back to Blair, but before I could be put back in his wallet, Jim took me.
He didn't ask Blair's permission, nor did Blair make any comment about it. I got the distinct impression that Blair understood what his Sentinel was thinking and feeling, and with typical sensitivity didn't call the bigger man on it. So into Jim's pocket I went as they dealt with the fallout from the shooting.
Turned out the shooter was a suspect in a murder case, and a later search of his home turned up evidence that he had been the guilty party after all. Why we decided to run amuck at the PD is unknown, but traces of PCP and other drugs were found in his blood, so there may well have not been a reason. It was decreed a 'righteous shoot' and the file was closed and forgotten by all not directly involved in the matter.
That evening, after Blair had gone to bed, Jim sat alone on the couch, in the dark, idly rubbing me between his fingers. His sharp blue eyes were fixed on some unseen point beyond the balcony doors, his mind apparently even further away. Finally he sighed and turned his attention back to me, looking at my damaged front and running a gentle finger over it.
"Damn. This was just too close," he said softly, his eyes misting a little. It was okay for him to let his guard down, I suppose. There wasn't anyone there to see it. "Thank you for stopping that bullet. When Blair first found you, I joked around that a nickel was worthless. Well, I was wrong."
He stood up and crossed over to the bookcase, picking up a very beautiful small antique crystal bowl. One last caress and he laid me gently in this new 'home' and placed it back on the shelf where he could easily see me anytime he needed to.
"You aren't worthless. You're priceless."
The end.