Work Text:
“Not the head or neck, obviously. And not my bad leg.” He needn’t specify which; John knows. “I can’t really run around,” he adds, “or bend over quickly. Have to make them in advance, so…” Frowning, he searches John’s face. “If this is too much trouble, John--”
John’s smile is an easy one, with affection crinkling the eyes. “Doesn’t bother me.”
A short search finds them a waist-high brick wall near the edge of the park. Bare branches loom overhead as they cheerfully start lining the top of the wall with well-packed snowballs.
Once they're in position, Finch lets fly.