DISCLAIMER: Pet Fly and Paramount own the copyright to The Sentinel 
and its characters. This piece of fan fiction was written solely 
for the love of the characters and to share freely with other fans. 
No profit is being made from the posting of this story.

Category: Humor

Rating: R

Summary: A weekend seminar in Las Vegas ends with Blair wanting
to prove himself to be one of the gang. It's a weekend he and Jim
aren't likely to forget. Included: a few too many drinks, Blair
in drag, a wedding chapel and compromising positions. Oh, and did
I mention *dares* . . . ?

Warnings: I was told to include a "no eating or drinking at your
computer" warning. Extreme silliness ahead.

Notes: Thanks to Terri for recommendations, plot bunnies and
one-liners, and to Allison, Heather-Anne, and Sensor for the
great betas.

Language note: "Besotted" also means drunk, although the more
common usage implies infatuation with someone or something. {g}


DARING DEEDS
  by Nancy Taylor
  nat1228@home.com

Henri Brown nursed his second whiskey sour of the evening, eyeing
his friends around the table with relief. "Man, I am *so* glad
that seminar is *finally* over! I thought I might just die from
boredom!"

"What's the matter?" quipped Blair as he sipped a rum and coke.
"You don't enjoy lectures on forensic evidence?"

"Not just before dinner!" commiserated a slightly green Detective
Rafe.

"Well, I think it's fascinating," the grad student replied. "It's
not that different from what anthropologists do on a dig--take a
few bones and other bits of evidence at the site, and reconstruct
a life." He took another sip of his drink, feeling lightheaded,
as he usually did whenever he drank anything stronger than beer.

"I don't believe the three of you," Jim chuckled. "Here we are,
in Las Vegas of all places, and all you can do is gripe about how
we got here. You should be grateful Simon decided to send us all
here. We've got the whole night to enjoy ourselves before our
flight home tomorrow."

"I'm not griping, man," Blair declared. "I intend to have a good
time. Heck, these 'women' serving us are even starting to look
good." He took another sip of his drink, smiling
conspiratorially.

Rafe and Brown looked appreciatively at the tall, shapely women
working the tables.

"Too bad they're not really women," Blair continued.

"What do you mean?" Two heads snapped back to look at him.

"Oh, come on, guys," Blair teased. "There's a reason they call
this place 'The Four Queens', you know, and it doesn't have
anything to do with cards." He paused to look around the table,
then to eye the young woman heading toward them to refresh their
drinks. "These women are all *men*."

"No way, Sandburg!" Brown protested, watching appreciatively as
one of the long-legged waitresses shimmied up to their table.

"Yes, way!" Blair retorted, trying hard not to laugh as Brown and
Rafe stared openly.

"Another round," Jim told their waitress, while his friends
argued.

"You bet, Sugar," she purred, turning on a spiked heel to walk
away, an exaggerated wiggle to her hips.

"I tell you," Blair continued, "they're all men. Every last one."

"With those boobs?" Rafe asked, incredulous.

"Silicon," the young man informed them.

"No way," Henri Brown repeated, shaking his head.

Blair turned to his partner with a patented "help me out here"
look. Jim just shrugged and smiled. "Not my argument, Chief."

Grunting, Blair returned his attention to his drink. If the
Neanderthals at his table couldn't see it, he wasn't going to
burst their bubble. They'd find out soon enough.

<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>

Several drinks later into the evening, the men at the Cascade PD
table no longer cared whether the lovely ladies were actually
ladies or not. Even Jim "Someone's Gotta Stay Sober" Ellison
wasn't feeling any pain.

Brown squinted at Sandburg across the table, eyeing him with
alcohol-blurred vision. "You know," he commented, "Blair would
look pretty damn good as a woman."

"Sandburg looks pretty damn good just the way he is," retorted
Ellison, wrapping a protective arm around his friend and pulling
him in toward his chest. He gave Blair a good hug before letting
the young man breathe again.

"Yeah, yeah . . . thanks, but no thanks, guys." Blair held his
hands up in a warding off gesture.

"Aw, come on," slurred Rafe, trying hard to focus on the grad
student. "I'll bet you don't have the guts to do it."

"Do what?" Blair asked, incredulous. "Dress up like a woman? Are
you kidding?" He laughed, then hiccupped. "I've done worse."

"Oh, yeah?" Brown challenged. "Prove it. I dare you to go
backstage and dress up like one of these 'ladies'."

"You think I won't?" Blair took up the challenge.

"Sandburg. . . ? Chief. . . ?" Jim fought to get his Guide's
attention. "I don't think this is such a good idea," he whispered
into Blair's ear.

"Why not?" his partner answered, loud enough to be heard two
tables away in the noisy room. "These two goons are besmirching
my honor here."

"Who you calling 'goons'?" Rafe shouted over the din.

"What honor?" Jim smirked. "Chief, I. . . ." But his partner was
no longer paying attention to any of them.

Snagging the nearest waitress, Blair motioned her to bend down so
he could whisper in her ear.

"Sure thing, Honey," she drawled, taking his hand as he stood and
guiding him away from the table.

Blair turned long enough to wave good-bye to his drinking
buddies, then turned his attention back to putting one foot in
front of the other.

<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>

"What do you suppose is taking so long?" Brown wondered.

//Ow, dammit! That *hurts*! Hey! *OWWWWW*!!!//

Jim cringed in sympathy at the pained voice of his Guide coming
from somewhere backstage. What *were* they doing to the poor boy
back there? What could be so painful about putting on a dress and
a little makeup?

"I don't know," the Sentinel replied, "but whatever it is, I hope
it's worth it."

<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>

"Do we *have* to?" Blair asked, his eyes large with trepidation.
"This isn't exactly what I signed up for. I thought all that was
involved was a little makeup and a dress."

"Honey, you're the hairiest boy I've had to work with in a
while." Angelina, the wardrobe 'mistress', applied another layer
of hot wax to Blair's leg, preparatory to ripping every hair out
by its follicle.

"I'm not a *boy*!" Blair's voice hitched up a notch as he hissed
through gritted teeth. "I'm a *man*, and I don't have to put up
with this shit if I don't want to. It was only a stupid dare,
after all!"

"Nothing personal, Sweetcakes," Angelina smiled. "But we've come
this far. You're not going to back out now, are you?" With a
quick pull, Blair's leg was stripped clean.

"Ow, dammit! That *hurts*! Hey! *OWWWWW*!!!" the anthropologist
yelled in protest. "You bet your sweet ass! I'm outta here!"
Blair stood up and grabbed his pants, hopping from one foot to
the other as he pulled them back on. Charging through the door,
he made his way back out to the crowded bar.

<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>

"Oh, seeing Blair in drag is going to be worth it!" snickered
Rafe, tipping back a club soda. He'd had enough alcohol for the
evening, and was now cutting back to lessen his morning-after
headache.

"Yeah. This should be a real hoot!" Brown agreed.

Jim shifted uncomfortably in his seat, cocking his head slightly
in a listening pose. No more screams of pain were issuing from
the dressing room, so he felt relatively confident things were
going smoothly. If only Blair would come back.

The young man in question returned sooner than expected. Jim
looked on in amazement as Hurricane Sandburg stormed back to
their table. "What's up, Chief?

"I agreed to get dressed up, not tortured!" Blair spat, pulling
out his chair and sitting down. Picking up the drink in front of
him, he tossed back the rest of his rum and coke in one quick
draught, slamming the empty glass back down on the table.

"I didn't think you'd go through with it," Rafe teased.

"Yeah, it takes a real man to dress up like a woman!" Brown
laughed. "Guess you just don't have it in you, Hairboy."

Blair turned to scowl at the pair. It wasn't often Sandburg lost
his temper. The look on his face was enough to silence the two
detectives.

A soft voice issued from somewhere off to his left. "Come on,
Chief, you're not going to let them win this, are you?" Jim
turned his most charming smile on the besotted young man.
"They'll never let you live this down if you give in now."

"They'll never let me live it down if I go through with it,"
Blair argued.

"Damned if you do and damned if you don't, Chief. Why don't you
show them what you're made of?"

The young man sighed and looked at the two inebriated smirks
flashed at him from across the table. If he was ever going to
prove himself to Jim's friends in the department, he had to go
through with this. Pushing himself back to his feet, he snagged a
drink off the tray of a passing waitress as he made his way back
through the crowd to the dressing room.

<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>

"I was wondering how long it would take for you to get your butt
back here." Angelina grinned widely at the young man in front of
her. "Here," she said, handing him a razor. "We need a nice,
close shave."

Reluctantly, Blair took the instrument and walked over to the
sink. Lathering his face generously with the shaving cream
provided, he began to scratch away at his afternoon's growth.
When he was finished, Angelina led him back to the makeup table.
There, she began by applying a foundation of stage makeup to
cover the heavy shadow left by the young man's beard.

"Now, look up and don't blink," Angelina instructed, as she began
applying a thick coat of black mascara to Blair's already
generous lashes. A touch of eyeliner and a dash of pearl
eyeshadow accentuated the blue of their owner's eyes. Lipstick
and blush followed. 

Angelina pulled out scarlet acrylic nails and adhesive. Blair
looked at them, and a sigh issued from between his lips. "Is that
really necessary?"

"Honey, you clip your nails too short. If you're going to doll
up, might as well go all the way."

"I suppose." Blair held out a hand with an air of resignation.

While Angelina worked on his nails, a hairstylist began damage
control on his unruly mane of curls. When she was finished, Blair
sported a stylish French roll with a few soft ringlets falling
delicately around his face.

Face and hair finally completed, Angelina pulled Blair over to a
rack of dresses. "Let's find you something pretty to wear,
Sweetcakes." Sorting through the mass of clothing, she pulled out
and rejected outfit after outfit. Finally, she settled on a
sapphire blue gown of sequins and satin. "This will bring out the
blue of your eyes, Sugar." Her own eyes twinkled with amusement
at the look on the young man's face. She handed him the gown,
which was designed for a very buxom woman.

"Ah . . . I dunno," Blair said, eyeing the dress doubtfully. In
direct contrast to the fullness of the bustline, the slinky dress
was form-fitting, with a slit up the side that went to mid-thigh.

Angelina held the dress in front of Blair, sizing him up. "You'll
need to be a bit taller," she decided. Tossing the gown over the
back of a chair, she began rummaging through a shoe rack. With a
crow of triumph, she held out her prize--a pair of platform shoes
with six-inch heels. The clear acrylic shoes looked like a
Frankenstein's monster version of Cinderella's glass slippers.

"Strip, Sweetie," Angelina ordered. When Blair hesitated, she
smiled. "Believe me, Sweetcakes, you haven't got a *thing* I
don't see a dozen times over every night!"

As the young man began to disrobe, Angelina brought over a small,
beige garment.

"What's that?" Blair looked suspiciously at what appeared to be a
not-very-large elastic band.

"It's a girdle, Hon. With that dress, you won't want any
unsightly bulges spoiling the effect. Besides, it'll do wonders
for that tight little butt of yours." She handed the torture
device to the reluctant man.

Blair tugged along the edges of the waistband. "No way I'm
fitting into *this*!" He shook his head in dismay.

"Look, Sweetie, we all wear them. If you're going to impersonate
a female impersonator, you have to hide your male assets. *This*
is one way of doing it. There's an alternative, but I don't think
you'd like it."

"Yeah, what makes you think I wouldn't like something better than
this?" he asked sarcastically, holding up the girdle and shaking
it passionately.

"Well," Angelina continued with a sly look on her face, "some of
the men tie their genitals between their legs." She watched as
Blair's face blanched, and he made a genuine effort to struggle
into the girdle. "Thought that might be your choice," she
chuckled.

"I can't breathe!" Blair gasped, once the restrictive garment was
in place.

"Take shallow breaths, from the upper half of your lungs. It's
more feminine-looking, anyway. You'll survive. Now these," she
said, tossing a pair of stockings his way.

Deft fingers snatched the hosiery out of mid-air. "How, exactly,
do I get these things on?"

Shaking her head, Angelina pushed Blair into the nearest chair.
"Haven't you ever undressed a lady before, Sweetcakes?" Rolling
one leg of the hose up until only the toe was exposed, she bent
over. "Point," she commanded. When the bewildered anthropologist
looked at her in confusion, she clarified. "Your toes, Sweetie.
Point your toes. Like this." She stuck out a foot to demonstrate.

The view from where Blair was sitting suddenly became dizzying.
As Angelina reached for his reluctant foot, she shoved her ample
bosom in his face. Eyes glazing over, his right hand lifted of
its own volition to cup a breast. He was batted back to reality
when Angelina slapped his hand away. Her sultry alto voice
suddenly took on the proportions a of full-blown bass. "Hands
off, Sugar," s/he boomed.

Realizing his mistake, Blair's blush rose up his neck to color
his cheeks, the red-hot flush rising to singe the roots of his
hair. Anxious to end this and get out quickly, he cooperated
fully as Angelina rolled the hose up his freshly-waxed leg,
fastening the top of the stocking to little clips that hung from
the girdle. She repeated the process with the other stocking and
stood up.

Picking the gown off the chair, Angelina helped Blair slide it
over his head, tugging it into place. Before zipping it closed,
she stuffed two "D" cup falsies into the bustline of the dress.
The high collar dusted his chin while long sleeves reached to his
wrists, ending in little points over the backs of his hands,
renaissance-style. The slit up the side showed off a shapely leg,
while the tight fit accented Blair's assets. The hem dragged a
bit, until Angelina urged him into the shoes.

Teetering on the platforms, Blair saw the world from the lofty
height of six feet one-and-a-half inches. He smiled drunkenly at
the thought of finally being able to look Jim Ellison in the eye
without getting a crick in his neck.

Rhinestone drop earrings were clipped to his lobes before
Angelina led the tottering man toward the door. With a few
whispered suggestions, she coaxed her reluctant charge back out
into the bar.

<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>

"Think he's ever coming back out, or do we have to launch a
rescue mission here?" Rafe asked.

"I dunno, and I dun care," slurred a tipsy Brown. "Look whaz
comin'!" He pointed to a tall, leggy vision in blue who had just
appeared and seemed to be making her way over to their table. The
comely creature was occasionally slowed by the physical
admiration of the customers she passed. The poor girl's butt was
going to be black and blue come morning from all the pinches she
endured, Brown noted to himself.

As the young woman passed the table in front of theirs, a portly
gentleman reached out, wrapping his arms around her waist and
pulling her into his lap. She struggled, obviously rejecting the
pass as the man tried to steal a kiss. Large blue eyes stared out
at Jim from beneath long dark lashes, imploring him to help.

Rising, Jim strode purposely toward the neighboring table. "The
lady isn't interested," he stated flatly, reaching for the young
woman's hand.

The heavy-set man just guffawed, ignoring the irritating
intrusion and concentrating on wooing his prize. His "prize,"
however, had other ideas. Whipping her head back sharply, the
woman cracked her skull against her captor's nose, loosing a few
more tendrils of soft mahogany curls from her French roll in the
process.

Howling, the injured man released her. Jim took her hand,
steadying her as she rose to her feet, teetering atop a pair of
pretty amazing platform shoes.

"You all right?" Jim asked solicitously.

The young woman nodded.

Jim was about to release her, when he caught her eye again.
Cerulean blue stared back at him as the woman chewed
self-consciously on the fullness of a ruby-red lip. "Sandburg?"
Jim leaned in closer.

"No way!" Brown asserted, eyeing the shapely vision in sequins
and satin. "*That* one's for real!" He smiled wolfishly at the
young lady.

"No. No. This is Sandburg," Jim insisted, recognizing the
distinctive scent of his Guide, if not his appearance.

"Blair?" Rafe tried to reconcile the foxy vision in front of his
eyes to the short, hairy partner of Detective Ellison.

"Oh, God. Can I sit down now, *please*?" Blair begged.

"I don't know," Jim replied with a sparkle in his eye. "*Can* you
sit wearing that dress?"

"Give it up, Ellison, and help me here!" The typical Sandburgian
irritation in his voice left no doubt in the minds of Rafe and
Brown that Jim had been right, this *was* their wayward
anthropologist.

Jim pulled out a chair and helped ease Blair down into it. The
young man sighed with relief. "Man, these shoes were *not* meant
for walking!" He tried to toe off the offending footwear, but
they were strapped on tight. After an abortive move to bend over
to remove them, Blair gave up in disgust. "Satisfied?" he asked
the detectives.

"Oh, yeah," chuckled Brown. "You're quite a sight, Sandburg!"

"Shut up, H," Blair snapped.

"You look good as a woman, Sandburg, but I'll bet you couldn't
pull it off outside this bar," Rafe commented, a hint of another
dare in his voice.

"And why would I want to, Rafe?" Blair took a long swig of the
drink Jim had set in front of him. "Isn't this humiliation
enough?"

"Aw, come on, Blair. Be a sport!" Rafe wheedled. "You did a
pretty good impression walking out here, but everyone knows the
women in this bar aren't women."

"You didn't," the vision in blue reminded him.

"You had *me* fooled," Brown smiled.

"Like that's hard," Blair snorted. "Jim, step in here, will ya?
Help me out?"

"What's the matter? I thought you were fearless when it came to
taking on challenges like this." Jim grinned at his partner, not
willing to let him off the hook too easily.

Blair sighed. "I did my part in this little dare," he protested.
"Can I get out of this outfit now? I don't have to *prove*
anything else to this pair of dorks." Using the table to steady
himself, he tried to rise, but was stopped by a hand on his arm.

"The show's about to start, Chief," Jim told him. "Can't it wait
a few minutes? I thought you wanted to see this guy."

Settling back into his chair a bit grudgingly, Blair murmured his
agreement. He turned his attention to the stage as the evening's
act, Dr. Naughty, the X-rated hypnotist, was being announced.

The man made his entrance in with a cliché swirl of black and red
cape over a gaudy tuxedo with a red cummerbund. "Ladies and
gentlemen," he began, "could I have a volunteer from the
audience?"

A young woman, coaxed by her escort, stood and raised her hand.

"Wonderful! Wonderful! Please come right on up, little lady. Have
a seat." The sweet young thing perched herself on the stool
provided and looked at the hypnotist nervously.

"There's no need to be nervous," Dr. Naughty assured her. "And
your name is. . . ?"

"Patty."

"Well, Patty, this won't hurt a bit," the hypnotist grinned as
the audience chuckled.

"What a bunch of crock!" Jim sneered quietly, watching as the
young woman was put into a hypnotic trance. 

Dr. Naughty made the suggestion that she was a stripper. She
began to disrobe, the audience hooting and clapping
appreciatively. She unhooked the fastenings on her black lace
bra, dropping it to the floor with the rest of her clothing.
Topless, she danced seductively for a few moments before Dr.
Naughty brought her out of the trance.

She yelped in surprise at her state of undress and covered
herself, running off stage to the safety of the curtains.

"She was a plant." Jim was confident.

"If you think it's such a charade, why don't *you* volunteer to
be hypnotized?" Brown suggested.

"I can't *be* hypnotized," Jim insisted.

"All the more reason to volunteer and prove what a charlatan the
guy is!" Rafe insisted.

"Sure, Jim," Blair chimed in. "It's your turn to make a fool of
yourself tonight. Go show us what you're made of!"

"Who will be my next volunteer?" Dr. Naughty asked the audience. 

At that moment, Jim chose to bat his partner upside the head for
his previous comment. The hypnotist took the raised hand to mean
Ellison was volunteering. 

"Wonderful! We have our next vict . . . volunteer right here!"
The audience chuckled at the old joke.

"No. Oh, no. No, no, no," Jim insisted as the hypnotist's
assistant came to pluck him from the audience.

"Go on, Jim. Prove what a fake the guy is." Blair gave the man a
gentle shove to get him out of his seat.

Jim rose, but grumbled back a warning, "I'll get you for this,
Sandburg. . . ." as he was led to the stage.

"Just make yourself comfortable," Dr. Naughty instructed. "What
is your name, Sir?"

"Ellison. *Detective* James Ellison." Jim perched himself with
one foot on the rung of the stool and one foot on the floor.
Leaning an arm on his knee, he eyed the hypnotist. "I can't be
hypnotized," he stated flatly.

"I get that a lot," Dr. Naughty smiled. "Just relax and
concentrate. . . ." His soothing voice droned on as the Sentinel
focused on the sound. Slowly, Jim felt his senses slipping away
into something resembling a zone-out, helpless to stop the slide.

"Ladies and gentlemen. . ." Dr. Naughty grinned. "Now that we
have Detective Ellison's full attention. . ." he paused briefly
as the crowd chuckled again, "what shall we have him do for us?"
He looked out over the audience.

"Hey, I know!" Brown piped up. "Have Ellison propose marriage to
his partner!" He pointed animatedly toward Blair.

"H!!" Blair protested, turning to scowl at the large black man.
"Shhh!!" He waved his hands frantically, trying to get the
detective to quiet down.

"Go on!" Rafe encouraged. "I dare you to prove you can pull off
this female impersonation of yours."

Blair turned his frown on the younger of the two detectives. "And
how do you propose I do that?"

"Exactly!" Rafe smiled. "Propose! Let Ellison propose, then go
through with the wedding."

"You have *got* to be kidding! Just how much, exactly, have you
been drinking?" Blair's voice had risen a notch in disbelief.

Rafe smirked. "Bet you won't go through with it. You don't have
the balls to try something this outlandish. This is beyond even
The Sandburg Zone."

"Gentlemen?" Dr. Naughty brought their attention back to the
stage.

"Make him propose to me," Blair commanded, turning a smug look on
the two startled detectives.

The hypnotist smiled and turned his attention back to his
subject. "Detective Ellison?" There was no visible response. "You
have fallen deeply in love with the beautiful lady in blue at
your table. You will propose marriage to her. If she accepts, you
will then take her to a chapel and wed her." 

Dr. Naughty turned his attention to Blair. "It's customary to
give the subject a trigger phrase, something to bring him out of
the trance. As the good detective will be leaving this room, you
will have to be the one to break the trance. We need a phrase
he's not likely to hear until *you* say it."

"How about, 'Good morning, Jim'?" Blair suggested.

"Perfect!" The hypnotist returned his attention to his subject.
"When you hear the phrase 'Good morning, Jim,' you will come out
of the trance and remember everything that's happened to you."
Dr. Naughty paused for dramatic effect. "I'm going to count
backward from three to one," he continued. "When I reach 'one,'
you will wake up, walk over to your table and propose marriage to
the lovely lady." He looked at Jim, then began his count with a
theatrical wave of his arms. "Three . . . two . . . one!"

Jim opened his eyes, blinking rapidly. He turned and grinned at
the hypnotist. "See? I knew you couldn't put me in a trance." 

There was a muted chuckle from the audience.

Jim rose to return to the table. He caught Blair's eyes, those
liquid pools of blue being all he could see. As he approached the
table, he dropped to one knee in front of his partner. Cradling
Blair's hand in his own, he looked up with rapture into the young
man's face. 

"Blair, sweetest, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"
The words were whispered almost reverently.

Blair glanced over at Rafe and Brown, a goofy grin plastered on
his face. The two detectives nodded enthusiastically. Turning
back to his Sentinel, Blair took a deep breath, held it a moment,
then expelled it slowly. "Sure. Yeah. I mean, well, okay. I'll
marry you."

The answer appeared to please the older man inordinately. He
placed a chaste kiss on the back of Blair's hand before rising to
lean in for a kiss on the lips. Blair reared back instinctively,
trying to avoid the touch of lips on lips. Caught off guard, a
none-too-sober Ellison lost his balance, landing in Blair's lap.

Blair's eyes grew wide, and a smile spread slowly across his
face. "I knew you had it bad, man, but you didn't have to fall
for me *that* hard!" A chuckle escaped from behind a muffling
hand.

Pulling himself up, Jim looked dreamily at the young man. "What's
the matter, Lamb Chop?" Jim crooned, turning Blair's face toward
him with a gentle touch of his hand. He leaned forward to attempt
the kiss again.

"You smell like a brewery, Beefstick!" Blair complained, turning
his head once more.

Jim backed down, looking a bit hurt, but settled for another kiss
to the back of the hand he still held.

"Congratulations!" Rafe rose from his chair to slap Ellison on
the back and grin widely at the not-so-amused Blair. "Now all we
have to do is get you something decent to wear to your wedding."

Dr. Naughty whispered something to his assistant, then turned to
the men at the table. "As I have had a hand in this little
engagement, allow me help. If you will just follow Krista, she'll
take you backstage to find appropriate attire for the evening."

The young woman came and took Jim's hand, leading him, somewhat
reluctantly, from the table and his bride-to-be.

Sipping at his recently refreshed drink, Blair eyed Rafe and
Brown speculatively. "Satisfied? This what you guys wanted?"

"Oh, this is great, Sandburg! Couldn't be better!" laughed Brown.
"I never thought I'd have *this* much fun in Vegas. This is
better than the tables or the slots."

Rafe jumped in, agreeing wholeheartedly. "You bet, Blair! Oh, God
. . . you two are *never* going to live this down!"

"That's what I'm afraid of," Blair murmured into the alcohol.

A few minutes later, Jim appeared back at their table wearing one
of Dr. Naughty's spare tuxes. The hypnotist was at least a good
three inches shorter than Ellison, so Jim's ever-present white
socks showed at the ankles, and the sleeves rode up his arms
uncomfortably. 

"I don't think any of us are up to driving," Brown said, stating
the obvious. It took both himself and Jim to steady Sandburg.
With the tottering anthropologist between them, they headed for
the door.

"I'll flag down a cab," offered Rafe, holding the door so that
the other two detectives could get the plastered Sandburg
outside. He then hurried to the curb and held a cab until the
other three could make their way across the sidewalk.

Blair all but fell into the cab, followed by an infatuated
Ellison. "Scoot over, Blair, Honey," he crooned, sliding in
beside the thoroughly plastered younger man. Rafe shoved his way
into the back seat as well, while Brown took the seat up front
with the driver.

"Where to?" the cab driver asked.

"We need a wedding chapel," Rafe told him. "One that doesn't ask
many questions, and can marry a couple without a lot of prior
paperwork. Know a place like that?"

"Oh, sure. No problem. Just leave it to me," the driver assured
them, pulling out into traffic, cutting off a sleek black newer
model F-150 truck filled with giggling women fresh from a nude
male revue.

He headed south on Las Vegas Boulevard, until he reached the
seedier part of town. The casinos had thinned out, and the street
was populated more with strip bars and wedding chapels. Finally,
he pulled into the parking lot of a small chapel and killed the
engine. "This should do you fellas just fine," the driver
grinned. "Congrats on the wedding, Cupcake." He turned a
lecherous smile on Blair who, even in his inebriated state, had
to restrain himself from punching the guy in the nose.

Brown paid the driver, and they all climbed out of the cab. Blair
wobbled a bit, so Jim and Rafe flanked him as they walked through
the doors of the chapel.

"Welcome to the Little Chapel of the Bells!" the owner of the
establishment greeted them as they walked in. "What can I do for
you this fine evening?"

"These two want to get married," Brown said, indicating the
somber Ellison and tipsy Blair.

"Very good! That's what we're here for, of course! Do you have
the license, the blood work . . . all the necessary paperwork?"

"Well . . . no," hedged Rafe. "We were told this chapel could
marry our friends here, and we could do the actual paperwork
later?"

"Ah, I see," the man smiled knowingly. "Get ourselves into a
little trouble, did we? Well, no matter. Come right this way." He
led the small group into a tiny chapel, bedecked with flowers and
tulle. "We'll just fill in the blanks here," he said, standing at
the pulpit. "Name of the bride?"

"Blair Sandburg," answered Rafe.

"Groom?"

"James Ellison," piped in Brown.

"Very good. And you two will be the witnesses, I presume?"
Without waiting for an answer, he continued. "Well, let's get
started, then. Blair, you stand over here," he said, putting the
bride to his right. "And you can stand here," he positioned the
groom to his left.

Before the ceremony started, the chapel's secretary came out with
a camera and snapped a Polaroid of the happy couple. She handed
the picture to Rafe to hold while the film developed. The cagey
detective slipped the evidence into his jacket pocket and turned
his attention to the ceremony which was just beginning.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered today in the sight of God and
these witnesses to join this man and this woman . . ." At this
point, Rafe suppressed a snort, and Brown hid a smile behind his
hand. Ellison and Sandburg, on the other hand, didn't even seem
to notice . . . each for his own reasons. ". . . in holy
matrimony.

"Do you, James Ellison, take Blair Sandburg to be your lawfully
wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for
better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in
health, to love and to cherish; until death do you part?"

Jim looked dreamily at the vision standing next to him and
answered sincerely, "I do."

"And do you, Blair Sandburg, take James Ellison to be your
lawfully wedded husband--to have and . . ."

"I do . . . I *do*, okay? Can we get on with it? I'm feeling
sick." Blair was, indeed, looking a little green.

The slightly flustered official stuttered, but continued, "Um . . . 
okay. Are there rings to exchange?" Jim shook his head, but
lifted both of Blair's hands in his, holding them as though they
were the most precious things in the world. "In that case, I now
pronounce you husband and wife." Turning to Jim, he smiled. "You
may kiss the bride."

As Jim leaned in to claim his kiss, his bride threw up on his
shoes.

Blair continued to retch for a while after emptying the contents
of his stomach. He swayed precariously as Rafe and Brown grabbed
his waist to steady him. The two detectives led the nauseous man
over to a padded bench and sat him down. Jim came to sit next to
his bride, wrapping a concerned arm around Blair's shoulders and
crooning soft, comforting sounds.

Rafe and Brown signed the papers, and Rafe put down money for the
fee. Thanking the "chapel man," whose name they never actually
learned, they flagged down another cab to take the happy couple
back to the hotel.

<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>

With his arm around Blair's waist, Jim led his inebriated Guide
down the hallway toward their room.                                                                         
"I'm feeling sick again, Jim," came the weak voice beside him.

"Hang on, Blair. We're almost there, just a couple more doors.
You can do it."

"No, Jim. I can't." With that simple statement, Blair doubled
over, vomiting again in the middle of the hall.

Jim pulled his partner back to his feet, determined to get them
back to the room as quickly as possible. Still strapped into the
platform-shoes-from-hell, Blair stumbled, twisting his ankle and
falling into a heap on the floor. "Shit!" was the only
recognizable expletive as Sandburg grumbled under his breath.

"Poor baby," Jim cooed, bending to lift his bride off the floor.
Wrinkling his nose at the strong odor of vomit, he scooped Blair
up in his arms. He carried his hapless bride down the hallway and
across the threshold into their room.

Depositing his burden in one of the two chairs, Jim went to the
nearest bed and turned down the bedspread. Turning back to Blair,
who was barely conscious, Jim realized his snockered partner was
not going to be able to get ready for bed by himself. Taking
pity, he knelt in front of the young man and unstrapped the
nightmare platforms. Setting the shoes safely to one side, out of
the way, he lifted Sandburg to a standing position.

Blair leaned heavily against his friend, unable to support his
own weight because of the injured ankle. "Thanks, man," he
mumbled.

Jim wrestled the dead weight over to the bed. Pulling the zipper
down the back of the dress, he tugged at the tight garment,
eventually deciding it would be easier to peel it off by pulling
it up over Blair's head. When the young man was finally free, he
tossed the dress over the nearest chair.

He looked down at his partner lying spreadeagle on the bed, naked
except for a very snug girdle and a pair of silk stockings. Jim
grimaced at the sight, feeling an empathy in his groin for the
discomfort Blair had been put through that night for the sake of
a joke. Blair's eyes were half closed, and it was obvious even
without sentinel senses that the kid was dead drunk and only half
conscious.

Blair reeked of vomit, as did Jim's shoes. He had to force
himself to dial his sense of smell down almost completely before
he could continue. Walking into the bathroom, he got a warm,
soapy washcloth and went back out to the bed to wash the worst of
the stink from his new bride. Once the smell was under control,
Jim considered how to get his friend out of the girdle.

Digging around in Sandburg's duffel bag, Jim extracted a clean
t-shirt which he pulled over Blair's head before deciding on his
best course of action regarding the confining garment.

First, those stockings had to go. Jim fumbled with the small
clips holding the hose to the girdle. Normally deft sentinel
fingers felt two sizes too large. He tried pulling. He tried
twisting. He tried pushing. Evidently, that was the right move,
because the clip snapped open and released the stocking. One
down, three to go. Jim groaned as he moved to the next clip.

Having finished the front, he rolled Blair over to unclip the
backs of the stockings. Finally free of the girdle, the silken
hose peeled off Sandburg like a snake shedding its skin.

Now he had only the girdle left to consider. Rolling Blair over
onto his back once more, he surveyed his semi-comatose Guide. He
attempted slipping two fingers between the tight garment and bare
flesh. It wasn't easy. He tried tugging and rolling, but the
stubborn elastic had become like a second skin. A slight sheen of
perspiration coating Sandburg's body didn't help the matter any.

He began to look around the room for some way to cut off the
garment. Sinking into the one remaining chair, he considered his
predicament. Finally, a thought pierced the alcoholic haze. He
looked around the room for Sandburg's clothes, eventually
realizing that they had to still be down in the dressing room of
the bar.

He picked up the phone to call, talking briefly with Angelina.
Shortly thereafter, the clothes were delivered to their room.

Digging through Blair's pants' pockets, he eventually found what
he was looking for . . . the kid's Bar Mitzvah gift--a Swiss army
knife. Grinning wickedly, he flicked open the largest blade,
advancing on the bed and its lone occupant.

Not wanting to do damage to delicate body parts, Jim flipped his
complacent partner back onto his stomach. He stood, momentarily
mesmerized by the shapely butt presented to him. Spreading
Sandburg's legs as far as he could with the confining garment
holding him tight, Jim slipped the knife blade beneath the
elastic fabric and began a slow, careful cut up the back,
stretching the girdle as much as he could, using a shapely
butt-crack to guide his hand.

When he finally cut through, the elastic snapped, stinging his
wrist and making him drop the knife onto the bed. Blair inhaled
deeply, as though he hadn't had a decent breath the entire night,
which was probably the case. Jim snatched up the knife before
Blair could roll over and hurt himself, closing it and placing it
on the nightstand.

He pulled Blair to his feet once more. Standing behind the young
man with his arms wrapped around Blair's waist, he walked them
both into the bathroom. "Pee, Sandburg," he commanded, having
maneuvered them in front of the toilet.

"That's 'Sandburg-Ellison'," came the slurred response as the
grad student relieved himself of the night's liquid indulgences.

After what seemed like five minutes of continuous urinating, Jim
finally led the barely conscious Blair to the bed. Throwing back
the blankets, Jim settled his Guide in bed and tucked him in.

Circling to the other side of the bed, Jim sat down, exhausted.
He began pulling off the too-small borrowed tuxedo, tossing it
onto the chair with Blair's gown. Finally stripped down to his
boxers, he climbed into the queen-sized bed, pulling the blankets
up under his chin. He didn't realize, or didn't care, that he had
settled himself in the same bed with his new "bride."

<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>

The late morning sun peeked in through a slit in the closed
drapes. Jim slowly rose to consciousness, feeling a touch of the
fuzziness associated with a morning-after hangover. He tried to
roll over, but found he was held in place by the weight of an arm
and a leg that didn't belong to him.

"Sandburg?"

"Mornin' Jim," came the muffled reply.

"Huh?" Apparently the prior night's alcohol consumption had had
an effect on the Sentinel's heightened senses. 

"I said, 'Good morning, Jim'," Blair repeated, pulling himself
off the man and retreating to the far side of the bed to nurse
his headache.

"What the HELL!?" His current sleeping arrangement sank in as the
hypnotist's trance was finally broken. Jim flung his legs over
the edge of the bed and stood up. "What are you doing in *my*
bed?" he yelled at the cringing anthropologist.

Cowering on the far edge of the bed, Blair tucked his head into
his arms, trying to wrap himself away from the wrath of Ellison.
"Don't yell," he pleaded. Rolled into a tight ball, Blair began
to rock quietly. "It hurts," he moaned. "Make it stop."

The previous night's memories came flooding back to the Sentinel
as he stood, towering, over his hapless Guide. Blurred a bit by
his hangover, Jim wasn't at all sure how much of what he was
remembering had really happened. What was obvious was that his
Guide and partner was suffering from a monster hangover. The one
memory he *was* certain about . . . Sandburg had drunk more in
that one night then Ellison had seen him drink in the entire
previous year.

"Oh, God, Sandburg. Tell me we didn't." Jim sank back down onto
the bed, looking at his half-naked partner.

"Didn't what?" Blair uncurled a bit, turning wide blue eyes on
Jim.

"Get married. Sleep in the same bed," he paused. When he resumed,
his voice was soft and trembled, "Have sex."

"Hey, man, I think it's pretty obvious that for whatever reason,
we *did* spend the night in the same bed, but have sex? I would
remember that . . . wouldn't I? I would, right?"

"I'd think so," Jim ruminated. "I don't remember, either, but we
were both pretty drunk."

"I'd remember sex, Jim," Blair assured him. "Besides, you've
still got your boxers on."

"And you don't," Jim pointed out.

"Um, yeah. Why's that, Jim?" Blair looked puzzled, apparently not
remembering much of the previous night.

"You were too soused to get out of that damn dress. I had to take
your clothes off. You didn't have anything on underneath."

"Oh. Why do I have a shirt on, then?"

"You looked cold. Dammit, Sandburg, did we or didn't we?"
Exasperation tinged Jim's voice.

"I don't think we did," Blair said. "I would have remembered sex.
And please . . . don't yell." He covered his ears with his hands
and closed his eyes, looking thoroughly miserable.

Jim bent down and plucked a piece of paper from underneath the
pile of pillows. "What's this?"

Blair looked up, his blue eyes shining, waiting for Jim to
explain his discovery.

"I don't believe it!"

"Could you keep it down, Jim?" Blair pleaded, his voice small and
pitched up an octave. Curiosity finally winning out over the
pounding headache, he asked, "What is it?"

"A certificate of marriage--Miss Blair Sandburg to Mr. James
Ellison."

"*MISS*??" Blair blurted, forgetting his own plea not to yell.

"It's signed and notarized by someone named Justin Parks, and
witnessed by Rafe and Brown!"

"Gimme that!" Blair grabbed the paper away from the Sentinel,
staring at it in disbelief. "It's not legal," he pronounced.

"You bet your sweet ass, it isn't!" Jim paced the floor at the
foot of the bed. "We've gotta get this annulled," he muttered.

"I don't think we even need to do that, Jim," Blair assured him.
"It isn't a real marriage in the first place. To begin with, I'm
no 'miss.' Secondly, we didn't have a marriage license or blood
tests, none of the necessary stuff. There's no marriage to annul,
Jim."

"Tell that to Justin Parks," Jim pointed out.

"We'll stop by the," Blair looked at the certificate in his hand,
"Little Chapel of the Bells on our way to the airport and explain
things. I'm sure we can get this cleared up in no time, Jim."

"We'd damn well better! Can you imagine what Rafe and Brown are
going to do to our reputations once we get back to Cascade?"

Recognizing the predator in Jim's stealthy pacing, Blair raced to
calm him down. "Careful, Jim. Don't place all the blame on Rafe
and H. *I* was the one who took up the dare. My wanting to fit in
with your big, tough cop crowd was what started all this. If I
hadn't agreed to dressing up, none of this would have happened."

Jim paced a few seconds longer, then fell onto the bed with an
exaggerated sigh. "Not your fault, Chief." He reached over to
ruffle the already wild, sleep-tousled curls of his partner. "You
just wanted to fit in."

"Remind me next time that Naomi raised me to be an independent
thinker." He groaned and lay back on his pillows. "Man, why does
it have to hurt so much?"

"I think you've learned your lesson about booze, at least," Jim
commiserated.

Walking into the bathroom, he rummaged through his shaving kit
until he found the small bottle of aspirin rattling around in the
bottom of the case. Shaking two out and drawing a glass of water
from the sink, he walked back into the bedroom. "Here, Sandburg,
take these. No arguments."

"But, Jim . . ." Blair began, pushing the pills away.

"I said, 'no arguments,' Chief." Uncurling the fingers from one
reluctant fist, he dropped the pills into Blair's hand and handed
him the glass of water.

Blair swallowed the pills, grateful for the pain relief, even
though he wished he could have just brewed some tea instead.

There was a knock at the door, even that soft sound causing Blair
to cover his head with a pillow. "You guys up yet?" Brown sounded
as though he, too, was suffering a bit the morning after.

Jim walked to the door and cracked it open. "We just woke up,
guys," he said, poking his head through the opening. "How about
we meet you in the restaurant downstairs in about a half an
hour?"

"Sure thing. See you there!" Rafe waved jauntily, far too sober,
as the two men walked off down the hallway. Muffled laughter
floated across the intervening space, detected by sensitive
sentinel ears.

"They gone?" Blair cautiously uncovered his head.

"Yeah, they're gone, Chief, but we need to get up and ready to
leave. Why don't you take the first shower? You need to get all
that gunk off your face." He smiled at Blair, who still had on
the makeup from last night. Mascara was smudged under his eyes,
and his hair still held the remnants of the French roll. "Just
don't use up all hot water."

<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>

Forty-five minutes later, Jim and Blair seated themselves in the
booth with Rafe and Brown in the cozy hotel restaurant. The
waitress came by to fill all their cups with strong, dark coffee.
Wrapping his hands appreciatively around the warmth of the cup,
Blair sipped cautiously at the scalding liquid while avoiding the
gaze of the two detectives seated across from him.

"So, you guys sleep well last night?" Rafe grinned mischievously.

"Yeah, just great," Jim deadpanned. "Know anything about this?"
He slid the marriage certificate across the table to his fellow
detectives.

"Oh, that little thing?" Rafe chuckled. "I've got something even
better than that." Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out
a Polaroid snapshot and tossed it across the table.

Jim caught the picture and turned it around so both he and Blair
could see. There, in living color, stood the happy couple: Jim in
his too-small tuxedo, holding up a dolled-up Blair Sandburg, who
was leaning heavily against him. Both sported drunken smiles as
they waited to take their vows.

"You two make a cute couple," Brown quipped.

"I'm confiscating this little piece of evidence," Jim proclaimed,
tucking the picture into his own jacket pocket.

"Aw, come on, Jim," Rafe wheedled. "It was just a joke. No harm
done. Gimme back the picture!"

"No way, Jose. I'm not leaving you with any ammunition to back up
your crazy story. Sandburg and I will have a hard enough time
thanks to you two. No need to complicate things." Jim tossed a
few bills on the table and scooted out of the bench seat. "We'd
better get going. We have a stop to make before heading to the
airport."

<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>

"Cascade PD," Jim announced, blowing through the doors of the
Little Chapel of the Bells, displaying his badge.

"Can I help you, Sir?" a nervous voice asked from the office
doorway. "Oh. Mr. Ellison. How are you and your lovely wife this
morning?"

"That's what we came to talk to you about," Jim explained.
"*This* is Mrs. Ellison." He grabbed Blair by the arm and pulled
him forward.

"Mrs. Sandburg-Ellison," Blair corrected, smiling.

"Oh, no. This can't be. The young woman you married last night
was a good six inches taller, and she . . . she . . . she was a 
. . . a woman!" Justin Parks stuttered.

"*That's* the problem," Jim told him. "'She' *wasn't*."

"Oh, my. This *is* a problem," Parks muttered.

"Look. I think we might be able to resolve this," Blair said
reasonably. "We were 'married' late last night. Today is Sunday.
You couldn't have turned in the paperwork to the county yet,
right?"

"Noooo," admitted Parks. "Paperwork for all weekend weddings goes
in on Monday."

"Then you can just cross us off. Rip out the page. Use some
white-out. Whatever. This wedding didn't happen."

Justin Parks looked at the young man--long mahogany curls, large,
clear blue eyes--certainly an attractive enough man to play the
part of a bride on a dare . . . and there *was* a resemblance.
Sighing, he opened his record book and took out a wide-tipped
black marker, crossing a bold line through the record of the
previous night's ceremony. "There. Done. Are you happy?"

"Believe me, Mr. Parks," Jim cautioned, "I *will* be checking
with the county this week. If this wedding *does* happen to
become a matter of record, I'll see to it that you're brought up
on charges of fraud." At nearly six feet, two inches, James
Ellison was imposing enough that Mr. Justin Parks completely
overlooked the fact that the detective did not have jurisdiction
in Las Vegas.

"Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. I mean . . . you don't have to worry,
sir."

"Good." Jim turned and motioned to the door with a sweep of his
arm. "Gentlemen?" Blair, Rafe and Brown followed him out to the
waiting cab.

<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>*<$>

Surprisingly, the plane back to Cascade wasn't crowded. Jim
stared out the window at the fluffy clouds and patchwork quilt
mosaic of the land below him. Blair sat next to him, sleeping his
hangover away, head pillowed on Jim's shoulder. Tucked safely in
an inside jacket pocket was an invalid wedding certificate and a
Polaroid snapshot. He smiled to himself. Life with Sandburg was a
roller coaster. It never hurt to keep a little extra ammunition
stored away . . . just in case.


The End?

Comments welcome . . . pretty please?
---------------------------------------------------
Note: There *is* a real "Dr. Naughty" in Las Vegas. He was
performing at the Bourbon Street Hotel and Casino in early
October, 2000. No, I *didn't* go see his show. {g}