Category: Humor

Rating: PG

Series/Sequel: Nope

Warnings: Nope again

Notes: I read a post where someone asked about singing-Blair stories. A long car ride with nothing else to think about produced this little ditty.

Standard disclaimers apply.

**********

Jim opened the door to the loft, a mischievous grin plastered across his chiseled features. Simon Banks was standing in the hall, cigar in mouth, pizza box in hand and fist raised in mid-knock. The burly police captain glared at his detective and handed over the greasy box.

"Just once, Jim, could you let me knock?"

"Come on, Simon," Jim bantered. "Pepperoni and those cigars are a dead giveaway. Speaking of which, if you don't mind..."

Simon sighed, took the cigar from his mouth and deposited it into his case, slipping the black holder into his breast pocket.

"Thanks for picking up the pizza," Jim said, shoving some of Sandburg's books aside to make room for the box on the coffee table.

"It was on the way and you've haven't lived until you've tried Little Ellio's Meat Lover's Deluxe." Simon breathed deeply to illustrate his point as he removed two beers from the refrigerator.

Jim lifted the cardboard lid, letting the fragrant steam rise to meat his nostrils. The heavenly scents of pepperoni, sausage, bacon, ham and ground beef, dripping with melted mozzarella, tickled his senses and set his stomach growling. Blair would probably call the masterpiece a heart attack on crust. Jim turned on the television and accepted a frosty brown bottle from Simon. Both men snagged a slice of the pie and settled on either end of the couch to watch the Jag's game.

It gradually became obvious to the Sentinel that his captain was nervous about something. His heart was beating slightly faster than normal and he kept throwing sideways glances at Jim. The corners of the black man's mouth twitched, threatening to break into a smile. After fifteen minutes of this, Jim placed his empty bottle on the coffee table and turned to face Simon.

"What?" Simon asked, not succeeding at feigning innocence.

"You tell me. You've been acting like you've got some sort of secret since you walked in the door."

Simon sighed. "I was going to wait until Sandburg got back and surprise you both. When's he due back, anyhow?"

"I'm not sure," Jim admitted, his curiosity piqued. "He said he was going out after his seminar tonight, so it's hard to tell."

"Damn. He needs an answer by 9:30."

"Who needs an answer for what?" Jim perched on the edge of the couch. "Come on, Simon. You can't leave me hanging like this."

Simon grinned devilishly. "I don't know. Maybe Rafe and Brown would rather go."

"Go where!"

Chuckling, the captain threw up his hands in surrender. "Okay, I'll give. A buddy of mine owed me a favor and he hooked me up with three tickets to any two of the Jag's play-off games this season. Thing is, he needs to know which games by tonight, so I need your and Sandburg's schedules."

Jim's expression had gone from expectant to disbelieving to positively ecstatic. "Those tickets are impossible to get! That must have been some favor."

"I take it you want the ticket?" Simon asked innocently.

"You bet your cigars," Jim replied, reaching for the cordless phone. "I'm gonna call the university, see where Sandburg is teaching. Maybe I can sneak in during a break and ask him."

Simon took their empty bottles to the recycling bin and leaned quietly against the kitchen pillar while Jim dialed Rainier.

"Hello?" Jim asked. "This is Detective Jim Ellison. I--" He laughed. "That's right....well, he said he's teaching some sort of seminar....are you sure?"

Simon's ears pricked up at the confusion in his friend's voice, wishing desperately for the man's extra-sensitive hearing.

Jim listened for several more seconds, then said, "All right, thank you."

"What is it?"

"The Registrar said Sandburg doesn't teach any evening classes this semester."

Simon blinked. "So where in hell has he been every week night for the last month?"

"Good question," Jim said, his icy eyes tinged with annoyance and concern. "And I have every intention of asking him."

***********

Blair unlocked the door to the loft, stifling back a monster yawn. He was exhausted beyond belief, his back hurt and his throat was raw. He vaguely wished that he had a cold; at least that would be a more pleasant cause of his discomfort. Opening the door, Blair was surprised to find the loft bathed in darkness. Sure, it was one-thirty, but Jim usually left a light on in his bedroom to prevent the younger man from tripping and breaking anything, bone or otherwise. He gently closed the door and placed his keys noiselessly in the basket.

"Where were you?"

Sandburg started, his heart leaping into his throat. His backpack slipping off his shoulder and clattered to the floor. He took several deep breaths to calm his rapid heartbeat, searching the darkness for his roommate.

The table lamp by the love seat was switched on, illuminating Jim Ellison, perched casually on the arm of the love seat and watching him expectantly.

"Geez, Jim," Blair exclaimed, placing a hand over his heart. "If you're trying to make me die of a heart attack, you're doing a good job." His eyes wandered, spying the grease soaked pizza box on the counter. He raised an eyebrow. "Of course, not as good a job as you're doing on yourself. Did they soak that thing in oil or what?"

"Where've you been all night?" Jim asked, standing up.

Blair picked up his backpack and walked toward his room, knowing his roommate would hear him from anywhere in the apartment. "I said I was going out with friends after my seminar. You didn't have to wait up," he concluded, standing in the doorway of his bedroom.

"What was that seminar on again?"

What was with all the questions? "Advanced Anthropological Theories on South American Subcultures. Why?"

Jim crossed his arms across his chest. For the first time, Blair noticed that the older man looked angry. A kind of concerned angry, but angry nonetheless.

"Jim, what's wrong?"

"You tell me, Chief?"

Blair's mind ran through the day's events. He'd helped Jim with the paperwork and logged it in before leaving. He hadn't left any hair in the bathtub or sink that morning. What could Jim possibly be mad about? He couldn't know....

"Simon got us tickets to two Jags playoff games," Jim said, the curve in conversation throwing Blair for a loop.

"That's great, Jim! How did he-?"

"I needed to get in touch with you," Jim interrupted, taking two steps closer. "Simon needed to know which games we could go to, so I called Rainier to ask about your schedule."

Blair's heart sank. This was not good. "Uh huh," he mumbled.

Jim glared at him. "Uh huh? That's your explanation? Where the hell have you been going for three hours a night, every night this month?"

"Well, technically it's only been Monday through Friday."

"Sandburg!"

Blair sighed; it would be useless to try to lie his way out of this one. He trudged over to sit at the kitchen table. Jim moved to sit opposite him, is steely eyes never wavering.

"Jim, you have got to promise you won't laugh or make stupid jokes or anything."

The Sentinel relaxed a bit. If this was going to be a serious conversation, it wouldn't have started like that. "I promise," he replied solemnly.

Blair bit his lower lip. "It was kind of a bet," he mumbled.

Jim groaned. "With whom?"

"Uh, this friend of mine in the Theater Department, Josh Larkin."

"What kind of bet?"

"Well, you know how Rainier gives out ten Presidential Scholarships to grad students who show extreme promise in their research?"

"No I didn't, but I'm with you so far. What was the bet?"

"He had to streak through the awards dinner for the scholarships wearing a bowtie and rubber Clinton mask, belch in the microphone on stage and run off. I sure as hell didn't think he'd do it!"

Jim stared with wide eyes, his mouth agape. "He really did that?"

"Yeah. I about fell out of my chair when I saw tape."

"He videotaped it?"

"I needed proof to hold up my end."

"And what, pray tell, was your end?"

Blair cleared his throat. "A play."

Jim blinked. "A what?"

"A play, Jim. You know, those dramatic presentations intended for the entertainment--"

"I know what a play is, Darwin. Why are you in one? Taking an acting class I don't know about?"

"Josh had to produce and direct a play as part of his grad student requirements. A week into rehearsals, his lead broke both his legs in a skiing accident, effectively making him useless: so, Josh asked me to fill in."

"As the lead?" Jim asked, still a bit confused.

"I said no way, that I didn't have time. But Josh was desperate and decided we should make a little bet, my end being I would do the part."

"What's the play?"

Blair flushed scarlet. He'd been dreading this part. "Lidshopverors," he mumbled, staring at the table.

"Beg pardon?" Jim asked sweetly.

The curly-haired man looked up, his cerulean eyes flashing. "Little Shop of Horrors."

Jim furrowed his eyebrows. "Chief, that's a musical."

"Gee, thanks Jim," Blair said sarcastically. "Now I know why I keep you around."

The Sentinel stared. "You sing?"

Blair sighed. "Yes, Jim, I sing. I also speak, yell, almost cry, kiss the girl and they threw in a few dance numbers for good measure."

The corners of Jim's mouth twitched. "And who do you play?"

//He's doing this on purpose.// "Seymour."

The twitching became more pronounced. "That was Rick Moranis in the movie, right?"

"Uh huh."

That did it. A loud guffaw rose from deep in Jim's chest and he busted out laughing. He tried desperately to stifle the noise with his hands, but it was no use. The mental images were too much. Blair tapped his fingers on the table, patiently waiting for the older man to finish. //So much for not laughing.//

When his laughter faded, Jim wiped the tears from his eyes and looked at Blair apologetically. "Chief, I'm sorry. Why didn't you just tell me?"

"Because I didn't want anyone at the station to find out. You know how those guys can be with their jokes."

"They'd have wanted to come and support you. This is open to the public, right?"

Blair's eyes widened in fright. "Oh, no. You're not coming and neither is anyone else."

Jim raised his eyebrows defiantly. "Just try to keep me away."

"Fine," Blair said with a groan. That was a downhill battle anyway. "But no one else knows. As far as everyone at the station is concerned, I have a class to teach."

"I'll have to tell Simon. He already knows you don't have a class."

"Fine, but *no one* else. Please?" Blair stared at his friend with wide, pleading eyes.

The Sentinel chuckled. "No one else. I promise."

Blair snorted. "Yeah, well you also promised not to laugh."

"Watch it, Junior." He cuffed the younger man playfully as he stood up. "I don't know about you, but I have to get up early tomorrow. You coming to the station?"

"I wish I could, Jim, but I've got four classes, office hours, tests to grade-."

"I get the point." Jim walked to the base of the stairs to his room.

"Hey, Jim?"

The Sentinel stopped and turned to face the younger man. "Yes?"

"The tickets?"

Jim's face went blank. "Tickets?"

Sandburg groaned. "There is no way I went through all that--"

"Calm down, Chief," Jim said with a laugh. "We've got seats for next Thursday and the following Tuesday. Will that work?"

An excited smile split Blair's face. "Perfect." He stood up and took a step toward his room, only to be stopped in his tracks by Jim's voice.

"By the way, when is opening night?"

Blair sighed, his last chance to keep his friend away vanishing. "Tomorrow. Curtain rises at 7:00."

*********

The next morning, Jim was rather surprised to not find Simon Banks in his office. In fact, few of his friends were in the bullpen. He wandered through the floor, opening his sense of smell. The faint odor of Simon's cigars and aftershave led him to the break room, where half a dozen of members of Major Crime were lounging. A sweet, yet pungent fragrance met his nostrils as soon as he opened the door.

"Jim!" Simon called, beckoning him across the room.

As Jim made his way to the captain, he greeted Brown and Taggert, both men snacking on thick, golden slices of cake. Megan and Rhonda were chatting at one of the tables; both women smiled as he passed. Try as he might, Jim just couldn't place the scent. When he reached Simon, the black man handed him a plate of the mystery confection.

"Rhonda made a rum cake," Banks explained, giving Jim a plastic fork.

"Rum, sir?"

"Don't worry. She used a non-alcoholic substitute. Tastes the same, though."

So, that was what he smelled. Jim took a bite, letting the moist dessert melt on his tongue, spreading its sweetness across each individual taste bud. Sometimes it really paid to have hyperactive senses.

"It's delicious," he said.

"So where's Sandburg been spending his evenings?" Simon asked.

Jim almost choked on his cake, but recovered quickly and swallowed several times. Somehow, he would have to lure Simon back to his office to give him this news. He cleared his throat and took another bit as a stalling mechanism.

"Hey, guys!" Rafe's call preceded his entrance into the break room, a photograph clutched in one hand. An enormous grin was plastered across his face. He waited until he had the half dozen people's attention before announcing, "Sandburg's in a play!"

For the second time in as many minutes, Jim almost choked to death. Simon shoved a mug of coffee at him, successfully curbing his distress. Every face in the room reflected utter disbelief, save Jim and Rafe's.

"Our Sandburg?" Joel asked.

"Sandy's in a play?" Megan looked at Jim. "Did you know?"

Jim felt a bit guilty as all eyes pinned on him. "I just found out last night. How'd you find out?" he asked Rafe.

The handsome detective held up the photograph. Jim didn't have to move closer to see the picture, but did so just for show. A good thirty people were standing in four rows, some in street clothes, others in all black. A trio of girls in sequined denim was posing in the first row. Dead center was Blair Sandburg, his arm around a trampy-looking blonde.

"This is the cast photo," Rafe explained. "My girlfriend's little sister, Amy, is the blonde next to him."

"I'll be," Henri said. "Hairboy's an actor."

"What show is it?" Rhonda asked.

"Little Shop of Horrors," Jim supplied. "He's Seymour."

Brown doubled over with laughter. "Rick Moranis!"

Megan frowned. "Who?"

"How'd the kid get duped into this?" Banks asked Jim.

"It was a bet and a long story," Jim explained. "He's kind of embarrassed about it."

"I can see why," Henri quipped, earning a silencing elbow from Rafe.

"So when's the play?" Joel asked.

"Tonight at seven," Rafe replied.

Simon grinned wickedly. "I guess it's a good thing none of us are on the night shift."

Oh no. "You can't go. I mean, uh," Jim stammered. "Sandburg'll kill me if he thinks I told you guys."

"But you didn't," Rafe said. "Besides, I already have a ticket. Tracey's making me go to see her sister."

"And I wanna hear Hairboy sing," Henri piped in.

"That settles it," Simon announced. "We'll meet at my house at six."

Jim stifled a groan. Blair was not going to be a happy actor when he saw the crowd that would attend that evening.

**********

//In. Out. In. Out. Find you center. Find that inner calm. In. Ou-.//

Blair's internal mantra was interrupted by a banging sound. His eyes flew open, only to be assaulted with light as the door swung open. A figure was backlit in the doorway. He struggled out of his meditation position and squinted up at the intruder.

"Blair?" a feminine voice asked. "What are you doing in the janitor's closet?"

"Hey, Amy," he said, recognizing the singsong voice of his co-star. "It's the only place I could find to meditate where there weren't fifty people staring."

Blair stood and stretched his muscles before walking out of the tiny room.

"You smell like bleach," Amy teased.

"Gets me into character," Blair quipped.

"Does it help?" she asked, closing the closet door.

"What? The bleach?"

"No, meditating."

Blair grinned. "Yeah, it does. Why, are you nervous?"

"Just a tad," she said dryly. "I'm afraid if I open my mouth all the butterflies in my stomach will come flying out."

"You know, people would pay to see that."

Amy swatted his arm as they entered the wings on stage left.

"Your roommate is in the audience," Amy commented.

"You saw him?" Blair asked, his eyes darting to the closed stage curtain several yards away.

"Yeah. You know, that Rafe's really cute. I--"

Blair's heartbeat spiked. "Rafe's here?"

"Of course. He's--"

Ignoring Amy's words, he rushed towards the downstage curtain. Opening the corner a half-inch, Blair peered into the audience. The rows of seats in the house were almost full. In the third row, smack in the center, was Jim Ellison. Directly on the detective's left were Simon, Joel, Megan and Rhonda with a man Blair didn't know. On Jim's right were Henri, Rafe and Amy's sister, Tracey. Anger flared in Blair. //He promised not to tell anyone!//

Without warning, the work lights flickered out, bathing the stage in darkness. //The five-minute warning.// Blair took several deep breaths. When his vision adjusted, he made his way across the stage, taking his starting position behind a wall of flats. All around him, people scrambled into place. He knew Amy was still stage left, probably adjusting her tube top and fur coat. Max, their Mr. Mushnik, was shuffling around the flower shop set.

Blair watched the house lights fade and the orchestration music began. The lack of a live orchestra was a direct result of Josh's non-existent budget. The chorus girls took their places, beginning the opening number as the first set of curtains opened. Blair's panicked nervousness crept back when he realized the play was really beginning. He closed his eyes, doing his breathing. Relaxation came back and was abruptly interrupted by a crashing sound. His eyes opened, flying to the prop girl that had made the noise. More dialogue on stage, then another crash.

"Seymour, what's going on back there?" 'Mr. Mushnik' yelled from the stage.

"Nothing Mr. Mushnik!" Blair yelled, accepting a box of clay flower pots and preparing himself for his clumsy entrance.

**********

He’d seen the dark blue eyes peering out from behind the nylon curtain. Jim had been trying to locate his friend backstage for several minutes, finally picking out the familiar voice from the sixty others chattering in hushed, nervous whispers. He’d also heard the angry exclamation and mutterings of his Guide when he saw the audience that awaited him.

//Damn. He’s gonna think I broke my promise.//

Jim began formulating a plan to speak with his Guide during intermission when the house lights faded. He let his vision remain normal, knowing the lights would be up again in a minute. No need to risk blinding himself just so he could watch the curtain open. Strategically placed speakers erupted with a drum roll, punctuated by a crashing cymbal.

A deep, slightly haunting voice joined the music. "On the twenty-third day of the month of September...."

Jim settled back to enjoy the opening number. As the song ended, another curtain opened to reveal a hastily constructed flower shop. A young man made-up to look sixty was joined by a slutty looking blonde with a black eye.

"There’s Amy," Rafe’s girlfriend squealed, eliciting several *shhhh’s* from the audience.

A crash, Mushnik’s question, then, "Nothing, Mr. Mushnik!"

Blair’s voice was high-pitched and carried a slight Brooklyn accent, as did the other actors onstage. There was another crash and Blair stumbled onto the stage, a box of terra cotta pots in his hands. Jim tried not to laugh.

Blair looked so much like and unlike himself at once, it was scary. Faded, ripped jeans rested under a patched flannel shirt and stained, white T-shirt. His chestnut curls looked greasy under the stage lights, hastily pulled back in an elastic tie. Random frizzies were hanging loose here and there. A pair of black, horn-rimmed glassed completed the ensemble, adding an air of dorkiness Blair hadn’t quite exhibited with his own wire-frames.

"Seymour" immediately fell down, tripping over his own feet and landing on top of the flower pots he was carrying. The thud mixed with breaking sounds and the audience tittered. Jim tensed when his partner fell, then felt foolish. It was a planned pratfall, of course. He really needed to get a handle on the over-protective bit.

Jim sat silently through the next few minutes of dialogue, patiently awaiting the next song. He’d heard Blair sing in the shower a couple of times, but nothing like this. The man obviously had a hidden talent if he had the lead in a musical. At the music's prompting, a sharp alto belted out, "Alaaaaaaaaarm goes off at seven and you start uptoooooooown...." Dancers and singers filtered across the stage, their movements so natural, yet perfectly timed. Amy's solo was next, mixing her lovely contralto with the rest of the voices onstage. Gradually, the singers parted, allowing a flannelled figure to step forward, absently clutching a broom.

"Poor. All my life I’ve always been poor.

I keep askin’ God what I’m for

And he tells me gee, I’m not sure.

Sweep that floor kid!"

As Blair sang, Jim became entranced by his voice. The rich tenor floated across the stage, tickling the Sentinel’s ears, drawing him in. The voice rose and swelled with the music, joining into a duet with Amy, then the rest of the chorus. Jim filtered out the other voices, listening only to Blair. It was quite unlike any singing he'd ever heard before.

The number ended too soon and the action resumed. Jim became aware of breath tickling his ear.

"The kid’s got some set of lungs," Simon whispered. "Hope he’s not too mad we all came."

Jim snorted. //Wishful thinking at best.//

**********

Blair accepted the towel a stagehand tossed to him and wiped his hands, glad to be free of the sticky stage blood covering his hands. Intermission finally gave him time to think. He’d been unable to see Jim or the others once the stage lights had come up, so he’d tried to forget they were sitting there, cataloguing every mistake to use later as blackmail fodder.

//Give them some credit, Sandburg. They didn’t come just to make fun of you. Right?//

The stage manager, a petite theater major named Renee, strode over to him, her normally calm features etched with worry.

"Blair?" she began, her voice a hushed whisper. "There’s a detective outside the stage door, down by the workshop. He says he needs to talk to you."

//For the love of....// Blair sighed. "Thanks, Renee."

"You’re not in trouble, are you?"

"*I’m* not," Blair muttered, making his way across the stage to the workshop. He fought to keep his anger in check as he wove through the chattering actors and crew, many stopping to congratulate him on a great first act. He smiled and said likewise and gradually made his way to the stage door. Blair slipped out quietly, spotting Jim reclining against a wall.

"You've been hiding something from me," Jim said with a Cheshire grin.

"Huh?" Blair was momentarily taken aback.

"I didn't know you could sing like that." Jim moved away from the wall and stood facing his partner.

Blair felt his anger fading at the indirect praise and fought to keep it up. "Yeah, well, don't feel too dissed. I don't even like to sing in front of Naomi." Speaking of which-- "You didn't invite her, too, did you?"

Confusion flashed momentarily across the Sentinel's face, then his hands flew up in surrender. "I told no one, Chief. I didn't even get a chance to tell Simon."

"Then how--?"

"Hey, guys!"

Two heads turned to see Amy bound into the hallway, her outfit slightly less slutty than the previous one. Her bright green eyes landed on Jim.

"Hey, you're a friend of Rafe's, right?" she asked.

"Yeah."

Amy flashed a folded piece of paper under Jim's nose. "Could you tell him to give this to my sister? It's important."

Jim nodded and accepted the note. "Sure."

"Thanks!" She stood on her tiptoes to give Jim a quick peck on the cheek and bounced backstage.

Blair turned understanding eyes on his roommate. "Rafe is Tracey's new boyfriend?"

"Yeah. He saw the cast photo and told everyone this morning. It was kind of hard to deny."

"Man, Jim, I'm sorry."

The older man shrugged. "Forget it. I just wanted you to know so you didn't go through the whole next act hating me."

"I didn't hate you." Blair chuckled. "Actually, I had come up with some pretty creative methods of payback."

Jim raised an eyebrow. "Like what?"

"Maybe you'll find out someday. Enjoy act two," Blair said, ducking a swat and slipping backstage once again. He laughed at Jim's loud, exasperated sigh as the older man returned to the house.

**********

"But whatever they offer you,

Though their slopping the trough for you,

Please whatever they offer you

Don't feed the plants!"

"We'll have tomorrow."

"Don't feed the plaaaaaaaaaaaaants!"

Thunderous applause broke out in the theater the second the lights went out. The rest of the cast carefully scurried on stage, taking their places for the curtain call.

Jim blinked back tears, the result of the crew's creative use of a fog machine. //Damn, but that stuff's annoying.//

The stage lights rose once again, revealing an excited cast. In the center was Blair, a silly grin plastered across his face. In perfect sync, the actors took a company bow. Several of the chorus girls crept up behind Blair and Amy, pushing them forward. They blushed as they stood apart from the rest of the cast, grinning awkwardly for several seconds. Then Blair took a step to the side and gestured to Amy, who let loose a graceful curtsy. She extended the courtesy, allowing Blair to enjoy a solo bow.

Jim instinctively rose to his feet, still clapping. His coworkers joined him immediately. A piercing, wolf-whistle tore through the room, complements of Rafe. The lights began to fade again and Jim caught Blair squinting up at him through the glare. Making no effort to hide his pride, Jim's ice blue eyes stared straight into his friend's until he was sure Blair could no longer see him.

It had been a great show.

**********

It didn't work.

Blair had managed to dodge his friends after the show and hadn't been in contact with anyone all weekend. The fact that no one had called him was a bit scary, but still maintained his hope. He'd buried himself in un-graded assignments and miscellaneous paperwork, hoping stupidly that his theatrical debut had been forgotten by Monday morning.

Fat chance.

Cops just couldn't let something that juicy go. Blair knew it the second the elevator opened Monday morning. Jim stepped out and waited for him to follow. A sinking feeling knotted itself in Blair's guts as he noted the unusual amount of green in the bullpen.

"Let's go, Chief," Jim said nonchalantly.

Blair couldn't decide if Jim was in on something. He half-heartedly tried to get out of leaving the elevator. "Uh, why don't I go get some coffee and donuts? There's this really great place in downtown Seattle--"

Jim shook his head and reached out, latching onto Blair's coat and yanking him out of the safety of the lift. Halfway across the lobby, he pushed the guiding hand away and followed Jim on his own accord. Many of the blinds around Major Crime were shut, keeping out prying eyes. Jim stopped short in the double-door entrance, causing Blair to tumble into him.

//Uh oh.//

Officers and detectives, absent certain familiar faces, went about their work, oblivious to the new decorating job. Every desk in the bullpen had a potted plant on it. Every other available surface, including filing cabinets and doorframes were lined with trailing ivy. A very large Venus flytrap was perched ceremoniously on Blair's desk, flanked by several dismembered, red-markered Barbie doll parts. A piece of white poster board was propped up in his chair, sporting the following words in large, oozing letters:

"Don't Feed the Plants!"

Peeking up, the look of utter amazement on Jim's face told him that the older man had had no part in this.

The door to Simon's office opened, spilling out Rafe and Brown. The two detectives struck opera poses and began belting out a terribly off-key rendition of "Suddenly Seymour."

Blair flushed scarlet, feeling the heat emanating from his cheeks. Something nudged him from behind and he turned around.

"Feed me!"

Blair's jumped, letting out a surprised yelp. Seconds later, he felt very foolish. The second largest Audrey II was sitting behind him, its mouth wide open. Megan and Joel were standing behind the puppet, biting back laughter. That meant....

"Captain?" Blair asked, peering into the open mouth.

The puppet shook as its sit-in puppeteer erupted in laughter. "What do you think, Seymour?" Simon asked from within, making the plants mouth move with his words.

With a smirk, Blair clamped the puppet's gaping mouth shut. "Any questions?" he asked innocently.

Jim chuckled and shook his head. Rafe and Henri joined the group now trying to extricate their captain from the folds of the puppet.

"That was some show, Sandburg," Rafe said, slapping him on the back.

"Yeah, I can tell you liked it," Blair drawled, indicating the decorations.

Simon appeared by his side, towering over him. "Just don't try to keep something like this from us again. You know we're gonna find out eventually."

Blair raised an eyebrow. "Next time? This was a one-time deal, Simon. The stage is definitely not for me."

"Really?" the captain said, a slight twinkle in one eye. "Because the mayor seems to think it would be good PR for the department to participate in the Annual Christmas Pageant this year. You'd make a pretty good singing elf."

Blair ignored the laughter at his expense and smiled instead. "Okay." The chuckles stopped as six pairs of questioning eyes turned on him. "On one condition."

"Name it."

The curly-haired man grinned devilishly. "Jim has to be Santa Claus."

A large hand reached out to grab him and Blair bolted across the bullpen to his desk. He armed himself with several of Barbie's unattached appendages, prepared to ward off the vengeful Sentinel.

End

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