DARING DEEDS III

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.

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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."

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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."

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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."

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"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.

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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}