Disclaimer: The Sentinel, Blair Sandburg, Jim Ellison, Simon Banks, and all other characters are property of Paramount and Pet Fly. No copyright infringement is intended, and no money has exchanged hands.


By Leesa Perrie


Friday night:

Jim entered the bar looking for one anthropologist roommate who was celebrating the end of semester with some TA friends.

"Hey, Jim, Jim, Jimmy, Jimbo, Jimo, Jim, Jim, Jimmy Jim," came an inebriated cry from a table in the back corner of the bar.

Jim raised his eyebrows in amusement at the sight of one very sozzled Sandburg.

"Hey, Chief." He greeted him, as he approached the table.

"Hey there, Jimmy Jim, Jim Jimmy. I love you man, really," Blair said drunkenly, "you're my bestest best bestest ever friend, you are."

"That's nice," Jim smiled. Looking around the bar, he saw Blair's friends on the dance floor. "Hey, why don't we go home, Chief?"

Blair giggled. "Only if you'll respect me in th…the morning!"

Jim rolled his eyes.

"Let's go home. You sleep in your bed, I'll sleep in my bed, and I promise to respect you in the morning, okay?" But not necessarily in the afternoon, Jim thought. Too much ammo to let this go without some good old fashioned ribbing!

"Cool man," Blair replied. Jim helped Blair to get up, wrapping an arm around Blair's waist as he started to tilt.

"Whoa, head rush. Cool," Blair giggled, "the whole world is revolving around and around and around me! Psycho…. psycho…del…del…del…ic man!"

"Come on Chief," Jim led Blair towards the exit.

"Bye, bye, bye, bye, bye…"

Blair seemed determined to say an individual goodbye to every person they met as they left the bar.

They started to make their way to the truck, but Sandburg's legs didn't seem to want to move in anything even approaching a straight line.

"Hey, slow down, Jimmy boy," Blair muttered.

"I'm not going that fast," Jim retorted, "maybe you should just concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other and leave the rest to me?"

"Okay," slurred Blair, "one foot, two foot, three foot, four foot, five foot," he started to count, "hey, I've got five feet Jim!"

Jim merely rolled his eyes again, and was grateful when they finally reached the truck and he was able to head home - even if it was to the sounds of Blair singing various folk tunes from around the world, in an out of tune and slurred voice.


Saturday morning:

A groan arose from Blair's bedroom around about 11am the next morning, followed by several more groans, a few curses and a somewhat shaky trip to the bathroom.

Jim smiled and got out the aspirin, a glass of water and put a slice of bread into the toaster.

Blair emerged a few minutes later and shuffled over to the couch.

"Just shoot me now, please," he moaned.

"No can do," Jim said, passing Blair the aspirin and the glass of water.

"Thanks Jim," Blair murmured, taking the aspirin and draining the glass.

Jim went back to the kitchen and spread a thin layer of margarine onto the slice of toast, bringing it over to Blair when he finished.

"I don't think I can eat right now, Jim," Blair grumbled.

"You need to try and eat something."

Blair sighed and started on the toast, eating slowly and unenthusiastically. Jim took the empty glass, refilled it and returned it to Blair.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Just let me die in peace," moaned Blair.

Jim just chuckled and patted Blair on the shoulder.

"I don't think it's that bad yet," he said.

"Yes it is," Blair disagreed, lying down on the couch, with an arm over his eyes. Jim just smiled and shook his head, wondering whether today would be a good day to give the pots and pans cupboard a really good clean out? Nah, that would be just too cruel. Instead, he spent it doing mainly quiet cleaning jobs and, of course, anthropologist teasing.

The End

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