Disclaimer: Does anyone care at this point? If so, please don't touch my bags, Mr. Customs Man.

Notes: I went to Vegas for the first time last week, and I understand that it's traditional to write a Vegas Vanity Story under such circumstances. Thanks to Anne and Mallory, although they probably won't admit that they know me after the Food Court Incident at Ceasar's Palace or the Food Court Incident at the Monte Carlo. Also, thanks to my new best friend, Earnie, who pays out nickel slots at 98.3%.

Summary: Jim learns once again that he should really start screening his phone calls when an appeal from Blair leads to Vegas Cheesiness.
 
 

"I am not having this conversation."

"Yes you are."

"You're kidding, right? I mean, even you couldn't be this--"

"Call me irresponsible, call me impetuous--"

"Oh, God. Why do you do the things you do?"

"To make your life complete. To make myself miserable. To appease the gods. Whatever; the point is, I need help. Lots and lots of help."

"No kidding, Chief."

"Be a pal and save the wisecracks? Just for me? And please, please, please--"

"Next flight out, but this is the last time."

Jim hung up the phone, knowing that he would be on the next flight to Las Vegas. He also knew with nearly spiritual certainty that it would hardly be the last time he'd have to "help" Blair. The kid needed more help than Sophia Coppola's career.

Between the recycled airplane air and the cloud of Primo (If you like Giorgio, you'll love Primo, but Jim liked neither so that left him, as usual, shit out of luck) and Virginia Slims hovering over the casino floor, Jim sneezed fifteen times before he even found Blair. For once, the kid was where he had said he'd be; for once, Jim wished fervently that it had been otherwise.

He could hear Blair's heartbeat, a sound just as unique as the sight of Blair's grimy fingerprints on the last clean glass and usually a lot more welcome, as soon as he entered the casino. That shouldn't be, part of him noted, given the sheer quantity and frenetic quality of tinnily noisy things on the main floor. He winced as a nearby nickel slot started playing "Macho Man" to the surprisingly girlish squeals of two lady accounts payable specialists from Des Moines who were no longer in the fullest bloom of youth. Beyond that, the Coral Lounge, about an acre of fake tropical foliage, bad carpet, and five-dollar pai-gow tables away, contributed not only the sounds of tourists drinking steadily but also a singer/piano player plowing her way through "Moon River."

"I used to like that song," Jim muttered grimly to himself as he found the sports book office. Right next to it, as Blair had promised, was High Stakes Poker, and Blair right in the middle of it.

"Chief," he said to Blair, scarcely bothering to register either his partner's relieved sigh or the consternated looks of the others at the table. Jim sat down and looked across the table at the well-dressed swarthy Lothario who, based on looks alone, could have gotten what Blair had bet him for free from most comers. If he'd wanted to, he could have figured out what the man had had for dinner, but he had work to do, and he wanted to do it quickly. Five cups of coffee on the plane, no time to visit the restroom, and now he was smack in the middle of the Mandalay Bay Hotel, Resort and Casino, surrounded by fountains, ponds, swimming pools, even a fake river, for God's sake. It was just a matter of time before a trip to the restroom became an absolute necessity, and he was determined not to look at his own reflection until he could say to it, Shane-like, "My work here is done."

"Five card draw," his opponent said concisely. "What's your bet?"

"I'm staking my own...time...against my partner's."

His opponent only raised his eyebrow in overt show of interest in Jim's proposed bet. Jim knew, thanks to his oft-cursed senses, that Swarthario there was more interested in Jim's offer than he had been in Blair's. He filed the fact away for future use in his ongoing Taunting of Blair Sandburg campaign.

"I accept," Swarthario said suavely.

"No cards wild," Jim said calmly.

"That," Swarthario agreed, "would be a pansy's game. And I am not a pansy." His eyes dared Jim to contradict him by mentioning the nature of the stakes for which they played.

Jim said nothing. Waste neither motion nor energy when you have to piss had always been his credo. As a motto, it didn't look too keen on a refrigerator magnet, but as a philosophy it was economical and covered more situations than one might realize.

Jim's hand was a dud; Swarthario's not much better. But it didn't have to be a whole lot better. Jim sighed to himself after checking the reflection of Swarthario's cards in the man's own pupils. He didn't like to cheat, but waste neither motion nor energy--

Screw philosophy. It was time to start bluffing.

"I gather that my partner offered you two hours of his time, and not for playing canasta," Jim ventured.

"Yes," agreed Swarthario.

Jim turned his head sideways and considered the man as though appraising either his attractiveness or his viability as a customer. "How about I double the bet with my own time?"

"I'm really not so sure," parried Swarthario. His hand was terrible, but he had no idea that Jim knew that. "Your partner told me that with his time also came his innocence in these matters."

Jim controlled a sudden urge to yell at Sandburg, many years' practice paying off yet again. "You didn't believe him, did you?"

Swarthario chuckled. "It's an old trick to drive up the price," he agreed.

Jim pursed his lips as subtly as he could while still allowing a non-Sentinel to appreciate the eroticism of the gesture. "I offer something better than virtue," he said, lowering his voice precisely one half of an octave before letting the silence stretch out across the table.

"What's that?" Swarthario was finally compelled to ask.

"Experience," Jim said, and after that it was just dickering. By the time Swarthario threw his cards down in frustration, Jim had talked him into staking the bill for his hotel room for five days, including room service, taxes, gratuities, show tickets and a helicopter ride to the Grand Canyon against precisely twelve hours of Jim's time and implied experience.

Swarthario was wise enough not to want to know what Jim held in his hand, instead offering to take Jim and Blair and a number of his own "associates" to dinner at the noodle shop across the floor. Blair attempted to refuse for both of them, at which point Jim smiled sweetly and said, "I own your ass for twelve hours, sweet cheeks," and even Blair didn't try to argue with his logic.

Having finally availed himself of the facilities, Jim ordered a double plate of rice noodles and beef balls for himself and a glass of water for Blair. He was asserting territoriality. He was showing Swarthario he was tough. He was teaching Blair a lesson.

He was being an asshole, and he loved it.

Blair drew the line at taking a beef ball from Jim's chopsticks, and Jim shrugged his shoulders and ate it himself, his demeanor suggesting that he was indulging Blair rather than backing down. Eventually, Swarthario
and his minions departed, allowing Jim and Blair to enjoy a pot of green tea in peace. Blair sighed heavily, no doubt under the mistaken impression that he'd done his time on Planet Weird for the day and could go up to their room and sleep it all off.

Jim was not ready to be shrugged off. Granted, he had just treated Blair, his respected partner, like a hybrid of a piece of meat and his favorite puppy, but he still felt he was owed an explanation as to why he had flown into Las Vegas to sit down and win back the rights to his partner's sexual favors in a poker game with someone who worked for the Family, emphasis on the capital F. All while, Jim noted bitterly, being watched over by a poster advertising Bette Midler's millennium concert just three weeks hence. Bette's face seemed poured in concrete; he guessed that she'd had more work done than Hoover Dam. Of course, when he'd seen the Divine Miss M in person when she was a bathhouse queen and not a glorified lounge singer and he was a young recruit and not Super Cop, he'd looked a lot better, too.

Additionally, being an asshole apparently had an effect on his libido, because he found that he had his choice of sitting comfortably at their booth in the noodle joint or coming up with a reason why he had to tie his jacket around his waist just like in junior high.

Blair's explanation sounded fairly reasonable, given the source. After giving a guest lecture about how to transition from a civilian career to a law enforcement career at the neophyte detective's convention that had brought him to Sin City in the first place, he'd gone out for a little anthropological observation of local gaming rituals for old times' sake. One thing had led to another, and he had ended up having to bet his "time" (for which, they both knew but did not acknowledge, one was
to read "extensive sexual favors") to Luke, which was apparently Swarthario's actual name.

Blair's explanation concluded with a suitably heartfelt apology, a quick hymn in praise of the almighty wonder of Jim, and a look that said, "Please forgive me."

All of this had been par for their friendship on many an occasion. The nature of the current circumstances and Jim's absolute and total arousal at the mere thought that Blair was for sale and he had bought him were new developments. That Blair was so turned on he could barely string together a coherent sentence was a mitigating factor, but hardly a comfort. It was only because of his Sentinel abilities that Jim knew that Blair was as excited as he by this latest twist on their relationship that was part Dickens, part "Drummer," but mostly as cheesy as the "modesty" bikini-area-covering ruffles on the cocktail waitresses' leotards.

And it was only because if it hadn't been for Blair there would be no Sentinel abilities, much maligned but also much beloved (not unlike Blair himself) that Jim ordered another pot of tea and sent Blair to will-call to pick up their tickets to "Chicago."

And if, while he waited for Blair to come back from the long line at the box office and enjoyed his green tea, Jim thought about another, more ruthless version of himself that would have played the game through, gotten Blair up to their hotel room, using his mouth and Blair's to kiss, lick, and suck all their doubts and fears away, and subsequently made everything up to Blair, naked-- well, if Jim thought those things, no one would ever know.

Because among the many things being with Blair Sandburg had taught James Ellison were the two most valued skills of a poker player: a stone face and infinite patience. More importantly, though, he had learned that it was about friendship, not cheap sex in expensive hotels.