Well, here it is--my first attempt at a more full length story for The Sentinel. For those who may happen to read, I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.

V

Disclaimer: None of the The Sentinel characters or concepts belong to me. They belong to Pet Fly Productions. I'm just having a little fun.

Assault with a White, Wet Weapon

By: Vanessa Sgroi

"Sandburg! What the hell are you doing out there?" Detective Jim Ellison rubbed a hand over his as yet unshaven face and leaned against the doorjamb, steaming cup of coffee in hand.

"What does it look like I'm doing, Jim?" called Blair without looking up. "I'm building a snowman." He rolled the small boulder of snow, adding another layer of pristine white.

Nonplussed by his partner's answer, Ellison cautioned, "Okay, Chief, but you're supposed to be taking it easy, remember? Knife wound to the leg and all. Isn't that why we all decided to rent this cabin for the three day weekend—rest and relaxation?"

The cozy little well-appointed cabin was about an hour and a half outside of Cascade, deep in the wooded foothills. It was one of those 'owned by the cousin of a friend's friend' kinda deals, allowing them a chance to have the last minute getaway for the long weekend.

"Yeah, yeah—that's all I've been doing is taking it easy. I can't take it anymore! Needed some fresh air and sunshine, man." After a few more passes through the powdery white landscape, the ball of snow destined to be the snowman's torso was finally deemed worthy. The young anthropologist hefted the heavy sphere in his arms, limped a couple of feet to the snowman's base, depositing it on top with a little grunt. "As my old babysitter, Minnie McLiverty, used to say, I'm 'blowing the stink off of me'. Figuratively not literally, of course."

Jim snorted. "You sure about that, Chief?"

Blair paused long enough to shoot Jim a dirty look. His cheeks were bright pink from both exertion and the wintery weather. With puffy parka he wore and the knit blue cap pulled low over his curly hair, he looked all of five-years-old.

The day was sunny but cold and a little windy. The sky over the tops of the tall trees was an endless sea of unmarred deep blue. Beautiful weather for this time of year. A stray gust eddied around Jim, whose jeans and long-sleeved t-shirt did nothing to repel the cold. He shivered and took another long draught of his coffee. "Simon called. He's leaving in about a half hour. Be up just in time to catch the beginning of the games on TV. He's bringing all the good junk food."

"Hey, I brought the vegetable chips and multi-grain pretzels."

"You mean the Styrofoam and sticks." Ellison paused. "Don't stay out there much longer." The detective cringed a little. Gee, nothing like sounding like his father.

" 'kay." Sandburg waved a distracted hand in Jim's direction. Moments later he heard the sturdy cabin door close with a thud.

Ellison moved to the kitchen and topped off his mug. For a few seconds, he extended his hearing—zeroing in on his guide's heartbeat and respiration—long enough to confirm the younger man's well being. Satisfied, Jim dialed back and sighed.

Leaning against the counter, the detective gazed into the steam rising from the dark brew, his traitorous mind casting him back to the events a week and a half ago. He could still hear Blair's piercing scream of pain as the knife bit deeply into his thigh. Hell, Jim could still feel the hot, ruby blood that had coated his hands in those terrifying minutes before emergency medical personnel had arrived and taken over treatment. As the slideshow reeled through his head, the detective unconsciously rubbed his perfectly clean hand over and over the leg of his jeans.

Shoving the memories aside with a grunt, Jim dumped the rest of his coffee and rinsed out the mug. Deciding he needed some fresh air and sunshine himself, Jim quickly located his boots and shoved his socked feet inside before throwing on his coat and grabbing a few items from the fridge and one of the hooks in the small foyer. Opening the heavy door with his hands full took a little maneuvering but he was nothing if not good with his hands.

00000

Blair glanced up from the final roll of what would be the snowman's head when he heard booted feet crunching through the snow toward him.

"Jim! What're you doing out here? Figured you'd stay inside by a roaring fire or something."

"Eh, even Sentinels need fresh air sometimes." Ellison shrugged. "Besides I figured you could use a few things to finish off your alter ego here." Ellison held out two cherry tomatoes, a stick of celery, his own black knit scarf, and a battered watchman's cap he'd found on the hook by the door.

Blair dropped the snowman's head on top of his torso before reaching out to take the items. "Oh. Um, thanks. I—you know—I wasn't really gonna give him a face or whatever—he was going to be more of a—kinda like—an earthy, existential snowman."

Ellison quirked an eyebrow. "An existential snowman? Now I've heard it all. You gotta give him a face, college boy. Otherwise, it's just plain . . . creepy. Like something out of a kid's nightmare."

Blair studied the snowman, eyes roaming up and down for a few seconds. "Yeah, maybe you're right."

"Oh, there's this too." Jim pulled a piece of red licorice from his pocket and watched as the younger man turned the cherry tomatoes into eyes, the celery stick into a jaunty nose, and the piece of red candy into a quirky smile that looked more like a pissed smirk.

After Blair wrapped the black scarf around its neck and topped the snowman off with the lime green watchman's cap, Jim took a couple of steps back and studied the handiwork. He purposely settled his expression into deadly serious and said, "I dunno, Chief. Still looks like something out of a kid's nightmare." He shuddered for effect.

Sandburg rolled his eyes and muttered, "Geez, what is it with you and snowmen? Did one chase you as a kid or something?" He then studied the three rather tipsily aligned spheres of snow more closely before again zeroing in on the face. "Yeah, come to think of it, I don't know about those red eyes, man. It kinda makes him look a little bit like a demon, don't you th—"

Blair's question was cut off as a loosely packed snowball hit him square in the forehead. The icy, wet shrapnel flew in every direction with several good-sized pieces finding there way into his mouth and one down his neck and under his shirt. A hard shiver raced its way down his spine. "D-D-Did you just hit me with a snowball, Ellison?"

"I do believe I did, Sandburg."

Another snowball flew through the air. This one hit Blair on juncture between neck and shoulder and exploded, effectively filling the inside of his coat with bits of snow.

Blair yelped and laughed at the same time. "You are so going down, old man. You just don't know who you're messin' with." The anthropologist scooped up a fistful of snow, packed it quickly, and launched it with expert precision, whooping with joy when it hit the detective just above the ear. Three more snowy missiles struck seconds after the first allowing no time for recovery or counterstrike.

For his part, Ellison did his best to take shelter behind a couple of small saplings and launch his own attack. But it was no use. Blair's rapidity in making snowballs and his unerring knack for hitting his target nine times out of ten had Jim soaking wet and crying uncle in a relatively short span of time. He came out from behind his "shelter" with his hands up. Promptly taking a late throw in the face. "Whoa, whoa, Chief," Jim's deep laugh, a rare occurrence, echoed throughout the clearing. "I give up! I give up!"

Blair whooped and pumped his fist in the air. If it wasn't for his bum leg, which was beginning to ache something fierce, he may have even done a little victory dance. He settled for a happy and heartfelt, "Yessss!" shouted to the blue sky. The younger man glanced at the usually stoic cop and grinned.

"Man, Sandburg, that's quite an arm you got on you? Where—how— the hell did you learn to throw like that?"

"Jim, man, you're looking at the Dean Street Junior High School's Great Snowball War champion for two years running.

"Really?" The cop's expression was skeptical.

"Yep. I even have a couple of trophies somewhere to prove it. Ask my mother. She hated 'em because of the whole war concept and all."

"Huh. Who would've guessed?"

"Hey, I told you you didn't know who you were messing with." Blair punched Jim's arm and laughed.

Seeing that his partner's limp had become more pronounced, Ellison ran a gloved hand down his wet face and decided it was time to head back inside. "We'll have to find a way to use that talent against the criminals one of these days, kiddo. They wouldn't know what hit 'em. Now how about we go in have some lunch? I'm starving. Make that freezing and starving." They started walking toward the cabin.

Blair brightened. "Those soy dogs I brought?"

Jim ducked his head somewhat guiltily and thought of the package of soy dogs he'd snuck out of the bag and back into the refrigerator at the loft. "Uh, no. Actually I was thinking more like tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches."

The younger man rubbed his gloved hands together, feeling relaxed and happy for the first time since being wounded almost two weeks ago. "Swiss cheese or cheddar?"

FINI