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?