Disclaimer: The Sentinel and all related characters are the property of UPN (although God knows they don't deserve "our guys"!), Paramount and Pet Fly Productions. No copyright infringement is intended. Please don't sue me. There's no money, property, prospects, to speak of. Only the toothless wonder, a dog named Panda.

I wrote this quick and dirty, while the wedding fairy was still riding shotgun with me. I've just returned from D.C. nuptials involving lots of drinking, dancing, and uniforms everywhere. So, while a POV TS story wouldn't be my first choice, I thought it was a corker of a way to see just how our Sentinel and his Guide would fare with a wedding as the backdrop.

Incidentally, the wedding I attended wasn't half as much fun. Quel dommage. Enjoy!

Where am I?

What is that nasty noise? The vicious buzzing sound? The zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz is going to make my head explode. No, I think it's ...

"Jimmmmmmmmmmmm..." in a soft voice.

And now in a sing-song "Jiiiiiiiiiiiiimmmmmmmmmm..."

Please stop.

"Jiiiiiiiiiimmmmmmmmmmmmmmmyyyyyyyyyy ..."

Oh, God, it's either Judgment Day. Or it's Sandburg.

Where are we?

Something's brushing my cheek. Sandpaper? No, Sandburg again. I've at least gotten one eye open. What is that touching me? It looks like ... "Sandburg! Why is your foot touching my face?"

"It's not my foot, it's my big toe. And a couple of hours ago, Detective Ellison, you thought that my 'puppy toes' were the cutest thing you'd ever seen. Or sucked on, for that matter." I slam my eye shut, but not before I see the scoundrel in question sitting in a big leather wing chair. He's sporting a devilish smile on that handsome, unshaven face of his, and the relaxed, robe- clad lithe body is a stretch away from the edge of the ... bed? Is that what I'm on? And it seems to be an enormous bed, at that.

My hyperactive hearing takes in the sounds of a small door being opened and closed, and the pop of some sort of bag disintegrating. I lift the eyelid off the other eye, and catch a glimpse of Blair Jacob Sandburg, my partner, roommate, guide and keeper of my Sentinel abilities, peering into the small refrigerator for a drink to go along with the chocolate chip cookies he apparently is having for breakfast.

"Christ, chief, are you mugging the honor bar?" Wait a minute. The Econolodge where Sandburg, Rafe, and I are staying here in D.C. doesn't have an honor bar. But then, it doesn't have a walk-in fireplace or a four-poster canopy bed that could sleep six, either.

"So, Jim, you want something to eat?" Sandburg asks, as he takes inventory of what's left in the unit. "How about O.J. and macadamia nuts? Or Oreos?"

Ugh. Please don't mention food, while I'm here, face down on satin sheets. Satin sheets? Why am I on satin sheets? And why does everything on this tired, old body hurt? It's like somebody used me for a mattress.

"Listen, big guy, why don't you try to get some more sleep? You had a busy night. I'm going to go take a soaking bath, complete with whirlpool. The tub in the master bathroom is a religious experience, believe me. I'll be in there for the next few hours. If you're in any condition later on, come join me."

Did the kid just say join him? And what's that he's doing, on the back of my neck and between my shoulder blades? Are those kisses?

What the hell is going on?

Let me think for a minute. The wedding. God, I hate those things. Washington. Earlier in the week, Rafe and I attended the Law Enforcement Symposium. That part I remember. Sandburg did some thesis research at the Smithsonian and at Georgetown. What had he said on the plane about Sir Richard Burton and his translations of the Kama Sutra? Rafe's eyes bugged out of his head, trying to figure out how a volume on sexual practices would help Blair's study of the Cascade P.D. as a closed subgroup. Wisely, he'd said nothing. Good man, Rafe.

Oh, yeah, the Zachary-Lewellyn wedding. Bill Lewellyn is one of the few friends who'd actually get me to attend something like this. He'd pulled my butt out of a sticky situation a few years back, so I owed him. This would make us even. Why do my nipples hurt? And why do my balls feel as though they have little bites all over them? Calm down, Ellison, you'll think of a reason. Eventually.

It's a little foggy, but the actual ceremony was pretty nice. Both Bill and his bride, Barbara Zachary, had a few marriages between them, so there weren't any big surprises. One of the perks of this particular wedding was that they chose the Hays Adams Hotel for the reception. (Sandburg says he wants to be cremated and his ashes scattered in the gift shop on the Mall level.) Anyway, the food was really good, the bar over-stocked with anything you could imagine. Hey, when there lots of bureaucrats, "company" types, service personnel, and other Washingtonians milling around, you BETTER have lots of liquor. And, I'm no expert, but the band was probably one of the better ones I've heard. The dancers around me seemed to think so.

Sandburg opted to come along, because apparently he loves ceremonies in general, and weddings in particular. "They're so replete with tribal customs, primitive symbols and arcane rituals, it's like a field study with place cards and hors d'ouevres!"

Let me turn over. Oh, Lord, I promise, if I survive this mother of all hangovers, I swear I'll be a good Sentinel. I won't break my Guide anymore than is absolutely necessary. What is this? Why do I have hickies on my collarbone, my arms, down my belly all the way to my ... could it be an allergy to something? And I feel like I was bulldozed, with aches and pains in places I'd forgotten I have. Where are my clothes? My damn Armani suit?

That Sandburg. I gave him my credit card to get something to wear. He went out and bought a blazer at a discount house one of the museum staff recommended. ("Gotta love the East Coast, Jim, there are more bargain clothing stores than corrupt politicians!") He came back with a blazer for, I swear, 34 ... a knock off of a Ralph Lauren. He bought a tie outside Union Station for 2.49 ("And I got a pretzel to boot!")

The last charge he made was a biggy. He bought me an Armani suit. Actually, my young companion, the 'fashion plate,' had been harping for the last few weeks about how I should 'treat' myself, but I've seen third world countries run on less money than the price of that particular piece of clothing. The little devil found it for about one-third of the original price at 'Suit U?,' or some damn place like it. He also got a shirt and tie thrown in for good measure. ("Hey, Jim, that's what my people do best. We haggle.") Where are my boxers? And why do I feel so ... stretched, like last night I had a close encounter with an alien anal probe? Where is Alex Trebek with the big answers when you really need him?

What's that next to my pile of stuff on the floor? It looks like the remnants of Sandburg's outfit, except for this elasticized thing wrapped around my left ankle. Calm down, Jimbo. Sure, they LOOK like the Sandburg's bikinis (he always jokes about only wearing them when he's going to get 'lucky'). They FEEL like his (soft, thanks to the Snuggle bear). They SMELL like Sandburg's (that mix of musk, spices, herbs, and arousal that always says 'Blair' to me). But there's something else. Something familiar. They seem to be soaked with my ...

OK. That settles it. I am definitely fucked. And so, apparently, was Sandburg. Where are those friendly aliens in a pinch?

Listen to him, singing away in there. Phil Collins' "Easy Lover." R-r-i-g-g-h- h-t-t. Maybe this is just a I-swear-I'll-never-mix-liquors-again alcoholic delusion. But do delusions usually leave marks like this on your inner thighs and your ... don't go there, Ellison. Sandburg's splashing around like a fish. Now, he's settled back. I hear skin against skin under the surface of the water, with his fingers stroking his --

STOP IT! And that little son-of-bitch is talking to me while he's 'doing' himself! My Sentinel hearing is going to get his tight little ass rimmed ... I mean reamed ... what am I saying?

Does the clock read 11:15 AM? We left the reception last night at 9:40. Fighting mad. And fighting. It was Sandburg's fault, as usual. I'm never to blame. He was doing everything short of mating with the woman who was the bride's best friend. Blair's taste in female companions is sometimes questionable. But this one, well, this one was special. Even I recognized that. Tall, leggy, and leaking pheromones in his direction after the first toast.

That I could have handled. My partner is a magnet for all types of women. Spillovers from his less successful social forays have the EPA sweeping up after him.

But Cindy Whitfield, she's a piece of work. Dangerous. Older, perceptive, funny as hell, and probably smarter than Sandburg (hey, truth can be stranger than fiction!). I knew by the way she eyed him ... with a type of hunger ... that Cindy ('C.' to her friends) was a true alpha female. And she'd decided to cut Blair from the herd, and take him down for her own.

So why should I care? We all need our clocks cleaned occasionally. And if my Blair wanted to ... MY Blair? Where was this coming from? Am I channeling Jackie Collins, or what?

Of course, with my luck, her date was the bride's idiot cousin, Ira. Ira didn't dance. None of the men at our table did. (I won't -- don't ask why.) Except for my partner, who loves to dance more than almost anything else in the world. And who, in his bargain basement outfit, looked like a young Getty, a Vanderbilt, or an incognito prince just off the yacht to mix with the commoners. He really is handsome, in an exotic, one-of-a-kind way.

Blair's STILL singing in the tub. Now it's 'Someone To Watch Over Me." He's got to stop. I won't be responsible for what I do to him ...

So, where was I? I mean besides trying to focus my eyes. There they were on the dance floor, Blair and the six-foot-in-heels Amazon talking about fetishes (the Zuni carvings both were hot for), Egyptian glyphs, retinal I.D., effortlessly jumping from one topic to another. All right, I was eavesdropping, I admit it. At the same time, I'm talking military crap with Captain Garry Citro, USMC, and his wife, Major Nancy Resnik-Citro, also USMC ('John and Jane Wayne,' Sandburg had said under his breath), and swapping divorce stories with Ira. But I kept track of how Cindy was progressing with the Professor. It was like watching a lionness stalking a lamb ... a stunning lamb with hair swirling around his shoulders, and those dazzling blue eyes that can speak volumes to the right person.

She wasn't the right person. I was. I am. I am? Yeah, I am.

I almost zoned on her face, as she drank in every word that Sandburg said. But, it wasn't the fake 'hearing but not listening' that some women do. The formidable Ms. Whitfield took it all in, and made appropriate responses. At least Sandburg seemed to think so. God, he can be such a slut. A little ego stroke, and he'd roll over with the best of them. WHAT AM I SAYING?

With the music, the noise, and the fact that I was throwing back vodka like a commissar, it made it that much harder for me to catch everything that was passing back and forth between them. When the band ended the set, I looked for the two to make their way back. Instead, C. grabbed the flushed anthropologist by the hand in a proprietary way and led him over to a group of women, all friends of the bride's. I heard them making noises around him, "at" him, and to one another about him. If it were in my power to sell Sandburg, I could retire just on the offers I'd get. It's really true. The female is the deadlier of the species.

Enough. I didn't want to talk strategy, world conquest, pensions, covert operations then and now with the people at this table any more. I went to reclaim something that belonged to me.

I have to close my eyes and sleep little longer. This bitch of a dream should be over by then, shouldn't it?

I'm awake again. Less scattered. Now I can feel scratches on my sides and hips. I think I was ridden hard and put away wet. And I've just about figured out who the jockey was. What happened next? Oh, yeah. I'd stalked over to where Blair and his harem were standing. I swear, these elegant, affluent women were doing shooters with Barbara, the bride. They were tossing down something thick and golden called Strega. (Come on, how can you trust a liquer that means 'witch' in Italian?) Coming up behind Sandburg's gyrating hind quarters, I put my hands around his waist, peered over his shoulder, and said, something on the order of: "OK, buddy, you're flagged." He turned those dazzling baby blues up to look at me and said something on the order of: "Oh, sorry, Mom, didn't know I needed permission to have a good time." Then, I said something on the order of: "Come on, chief. There's food back at the table that has your name on it." Then he said something on the order of: "Chill out, Jim. My friends, the lovely village 'elders,' here and I have more talking to do. I know how to get home."

I saw red. I've been angry at Sandburg before, but not like this. Maybe it was because he wasn't ... what ... paying attention to me. He didn't need me to have a good time. Never had. Pathetic, right?

I decided to leave. Fuck him, his winning smile, his warm personality, and the horse he rode in on. Hit and run perps had nothing on me. I did all necessary goodbyes at warp speed, and headed out to get a cab back to our hotel. I almost turned around to give Sandburg his key. Then I thought, hell, he probably wouldn't need it tonight. Or that I wouldn't see him again until he was running to catch the plane back to Cascade, dishevelled and looking happier than Mark McGuire after hitting his 70th.

Like I said, I'm pathetic.

Sandburg followed me out of the ballroom like a winged fury, grabbed me from the back, and started moving the both of us in the direction of the nearest elevator. He was yelling that I was acting like an asshole. "Don't you run away from me, Jim Ellison! We're going to talk this out, even if I have to beat the crap out of you to get your attention!" Do you believe it? Soft- spoken, easy-going Blair 'can't we just get along' Sandburg actually raising his voice at me on the mezzazine of the Hayes Adams? The doors opened, and I literally fell into the car. He pushed me up against the wall, right between two sightly 'overserved' gunnery sergeants whom I'd seen at the affair.

I was seething from anger, adrenalin, and the shots of Absolut. How could I hide the little squirt's body after I'd turned him into a flesh-colored spot on the Berber carpeting? The two other passengers were laughing their asses off at our domestic tiff. "Hey, Florio, it's the 'dancer' from the wedding! Does this little shit have a set of 'em, or what?"

And then something snapped. I shoved Sandburg behind me, and roared: "Back off, Marine! He may be a little shit, but he's MY little shit!" I think I blew them out of the elevator on the fourth floor. The next thing I know, Sandburg had his arms around my neck. And it wasn't not a choke hold. That, I could break. It was the kind of hold that cantilevered him onto my lips.

So, there we were, me and my shaman-roomie ... like it's the first hour of shore leave ... sucking face in the executive elevator of a five-star hotel.

Hey, it's coming back to me. I love it. And him.

Then Blair steered me to the double doors of a suite, and opened it with a big, gold key. (Don't you love rooms with keys, not computer cards?) He started talking, no, purring: "You love me, Jim. Admit it. Tonight, you acted like a jealous, possessive, insensitive, scared jerk. It's got to be love. Come in and show me."

Well, here comes the big surprise. I did. I picked him up, pressed his willing body against mine, carried him in to the well-appointed room, and threw him none too gently onto the bed. Luckily, the canopy was man-sized, or I'd have knocked whatever brains that were left in my addled skull out of my ears when I hit it going a thousand miles an hour.

And there my guide was, lying splayed, expectant, and excited, looking up at me with a million-dollar smile full of promise on his beautiful, open face. Mine. Sandburg's mine. From the top of that mane of hair to the tips of those puppy toes. Lock, stock, and barrel.

He's right, you know. I did act like a jerk. I was afraid that I'd be the one left behind. I took it before, because it hadn't much mattered. But, I wouldn't survive losing Blair. My Blair.

"OK, Chief, you win." I started to undress him as fast as I could, given how much I'd had to drink. His amazing fingers had no difficulty getting my pants down, my shirt off and my reason pushed to the back burner.

"No, thanks to C., we both win."

Did I hear right? I growled at him to make sense. (This from a man stripping his best friend naked in a frenzy of lust.)

"Not only did she gave me the keys to her ultra-fine suite, but also some good advice: that we should have a talk about 'us.' Face-to-face. Preferably naked."

"And what made her think we needed to?"

"Because, my big, strapping lover," my little Guide whispered as he pushed me face down onto the luxurious bed, and began licking my back and massaging my ass, "you and I are supposed to be together like this." As his fine, even teeth bit into my shoulder (hard enough to draw blood, I think), I was sinking into a haze of realization. He loves me. Not Chris, Maya, Molly, and certainly not Cindy Whitfield. Me.

I heard him fumbling with the end table drawer, looking for something. I also "heard" him smile and say almost to himself, "We're definitely going to have to thank her for everything ... including the supplies." I felt a cool, gel- covered finger moving inside me, slowly, methodically. No questions asked. No answers needed. Then the second finger, followed by a third, moving, scissoring, getting me ready. Sandburg was taking care with me and of me.

As he climbed eagerly onto my back, stretching his full length to cover me, to take me with love, I knew Blair was right about everything. 'We' were right. "I love you, too, Chief. Now fuck me hard." Good boy. Sandburg is nothing, if not goal-oriented. As I felt my enthusiastic young lover pound into me so deep that he was reshaping my prostate gland and driving me into the padded headboard, I heard him grunt happily: "Man, do I LOVE 'away' weddings!"

There's a knock at the door. I'm still not 100 percent. I'm not 50 percent. I'm just about human. I think I can make a fist, if I try real hard.

"Room service."

I stagger to the door, to let the bellman in with a breakfast cart. God, you'd think he never seen a naked guy before. Maybe he just figured I wouldn't be able to give him a tip. Did I just say that? Oh, I think he's gesturing for me to sign the tab. Here, buddy, here's a little something -- how about 20 -- on the alpha female. Breakfast smells ... great, actually. Let's see. Eggs benedict, granola and fruit (I guess that's for Nature Boy in there), breads, pastries, croissants, and, thank you Jesus, hot coffee with my name on it. What's this note?

Dear Blair,

I trust congratulations are in order. Eat, drink, and be merry. You two make a great 'happily ever after!'

Oh, Detective Ellison, if you're reading this first, I'd better see visible evidence saying "hands off" on that little piece of heaven, or I have dibs on young Mr. Sandburg. This is not a threat -- it's a promise.

C.

P.S. Your friend, Rafe, came looking for the two of you last night. I made your excuses, then took his fine self dancing and ... who says good deeds go unrewarded?

Damn, I gotta say it. She's good.

But I'm better.

Actually, parts of me have suddenly become alot more interested in what's going on. (Hey, quiet down, 'little Sentinel,' before I trip over you.)

"Jim, who was at the door?" the rich-toned voice drifts into the foyer, over the sounds of the Jacuzzi.

Thinking about what happened last night, again early this morning, and whatever is next with my now water-logged, pruney soulmate, I've decided that weddings aren't as bad as I first thought. Hmm. Banana nut muffins. Darwin's favorite. Let's see what I else I can take into him. Here it is, K-Y jelly, industrial size and a big box of condoms. Great combination. Should make for a nutritious, delicious, and unquestionably interesting snack.

As I enter the obscenely decadent bathroom, I grin, flash all of my teeth (particularly the canines) and answer: "Special kind of room service, lover ..."

THE END