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Disclaimer
: The Sentinel, its characters, concepts and history belong to Paramount and Pet Fly Productions. This is a non-profit work of fan-fiction, created solely for the private enjoyment of Sentinel fans.Notes: First posted in September 1999 as Hurricane Floyd battered the U.S. eastern seaboard.
Hurricane Blair
"For God's sake, we're in the middle of a hurricane here!"
Jim hunched over against the powerful wind, his upper torso almost completely swathed in a waterproof jacket. Only his disapproving frown and fierce eyes were visible beneath the tightly-tied hood.
"Technically, we're not. As long as you can stand up straight, like this, it's not a hurricane, just a tropical storm. See!"
Blair planted his legs into the sodden ground, spread his arms wide and tipped his face upward, seemingly heedless of the deluge cascading down from the dark clouds.
"So that makes it smart?" Jim blinked the streaming water out of his eyes and carefully scanned their surroundings. "You'll notice we're the only two people out here. What do you think that means, Darwin?"
"Ah, Jim, you gotta loosen up a little. Didn't you ever get your feet wet when you were a kid?" Blair stepped over a fallen pine trunk and jumped off the bank into the swollen creek. "Come on in, man. The water's nice!"
"Watch it!" Jim lunged toward Blair, grabbed his arm and yanked him up and back onto higher ground. "Are you crazy? You could get sucked right into the bay pulling a stunt like that."
"No way. See, there's the nine rule. As long as the water's less than three feet deep, and moving less than three miles an hour, you can still stand up in it." Blair shrugged off Jim's hand and jumped back into the swiftly running current, splashing an icy spray of water directly into Jim's face. For a moment, his legs threatened to crumble, but his windmilling arms maintained his precarious balance.
"That's for most people, Shorty. For you, let's use the two rule. As in, you're too reckless for your good. Now get the hell out of there."
Once again, he forcibly dragged Blair back to his side, snaking an arm around the smaller man's neck to hold him firmly in place.
"Jim -- "
"Save it. We're going home and I'm gonna make a phone call." With a firm push, he steered his captive through the curtain of heavy rain, steadying him against the occasional gusts.
"Call? What call? You know, if you'd just try -- "
"Did you know that the NOAA takes suggestions for naming hurricanes?" Jim tightened his grip, locking the sodden mass of curls within the crook of his elbow. "And I don't think the world's ever experienced a Hurricane Blair before."
The muffled response was almost lost amidst the roar of the wind. "No, man, that's an honor I reserved especially for you."
"Well, lucky me."
But despite the sarcastic words, Jim's arm shifted slightly and relaxed, becoming more of a caress than a restraint, drawing Blair even closer.
Battered by the elemental fury of nature, the two men walked side by side toward the warmth and comfort of home, creating a small eye of tranquility in the midst of the raging storm.
THE END
Author's note: The "standing" and "nine" rules are real, at least according to our local TV weatherman.
All comments, feedback and critiques are sincerely welcome at:
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